God,” say the seers to the enchanted, in the wise Arabian stories,

“then remain so! But, if thou wear this form through mere passing

conjuration, then resume thy former aspect!” Changeless and

hopeless, the tumbrils roll along.

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As the sombre wheels of the six carts go round, they seem to

plough up a long crooked furrow among the populace in the

streets. Ridges of faces are thrown to this side and to that, the

ploughs go steadily onward. So used are the regular inhabitants of

the houses to the spectacle, that in many windows there are no

people, and in some occupation of the hands is not so much as

suspended, while the eyes survey the faces in the tumbrils. Here

and there, the inmate has visitors to see the sight; then he points

his finger, with something of the complacency of a curator or

authorised exponent, to this cart and to this, and seems to tell who

sat here yesterday, and who there the day before.

Of the riders in the tumbrils, some observe these things, and all

things on their last roadside, with an impassive stare; others, with

a lingering interest in the ways of life and men. Some, seated with

drooping heads, are sunk in silent despair; again, there are some

so heedful of their looks that they cast upon the multitude such

glances as they have seen in theatres, and in pictures. Several

close their eyes, and think, or try to get their straying thoughts

together. Only one, and he a miserable creature, of a crazed

aspect, is so shattered and made drunk by horror, that he sings,

and tries to dance. Not one of the whole number appeals by look

or gesture, to the pity of the people.

There is a guard of sundry horsemen riding abreast of the

tumbrils, and faces are often turned up to some of them, and they

are asked some question. It would seem to be always the same

question, for it is always followed by a press of people towards the

third cart. The horsemen abreast of that cart, frequently point out

one man in it with their swords. The leading curiosity is, to know

which is he; he stands at the back of the tumbril with his head

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bent down, to converse with a mere girI who sits on the side of the

cart, and holds his hand. He has no curiosity or care for the scene

about him, and always speaks to the girl. Here and there in the

long street of St. Honore, cries are raised against him. If they move

him at all, it is only to a quiet smile, as he shakes his hair a little

more loosely about his face. He cannot easily touch his face, his

arms being bound.

On the steps of a church, awaiting the coming-up of the

tumbrils, stands the Spy and prison-sheep. He looks into the first

of them: not there. He looks into the second: not there. He already

asks himself, “Has he sacrificed me?” when his face clears, as he

looks into the third.

“Which is Evremonde?” says a man behind him.

“That. At the back there.”

“With his hand in the girl’s?”