In the submissive way of one long accustomed to obey under

coercion, he ate and drank what they gave him to eat and drink,

and put on the cloak and other wrappings, that they gave him to

wear. He readily responded to his daughter’s drawing her arm

through his, and tookand kepther hand in both his own.

They began to descend; Monsieur Defarge going first with the

lamp, Mr. Lorry closing the little procession. They had not

traversed many steps of the long main staircase when he stopped,

and stared at the roof and round at the walls.

“You remember the place, my father? You remember coming

up here?”

“What did you say?”

But, before she could repeat the question, he murmured an

answer as if she had repeated it.

“Remember? No, I don’t remember. It was so very long ago.”

That he had no recollection whatever of his having been

brought from his prison to that house, was apparent to them. They

heard him mutter, “One Hundred and Five, North Tower”; and

when he looked about him, it evidently was for the strong fortresswalls

which had long encompassed him. On their reaching the

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courtyard he instinctively altered his tread, as being in expectation

of a drawbridge; and when there was no drawbridge, and he saw

the carriage waiting in the open street, he dropped his daughter’s

hand and clasped his head again.

No crowd was about the door; no people were discernible at

any of the many windows; not even a chance passer-by was in the

street. An unnatural silence and desertion reigned there. Only one

soul was to be seen, and that was Madame Defargewho leaned

against the door-post, knitting, and saw nothing.

The prisoner had got into a coach, and his daughter had

followed him, when Mr. Lorry’s feet were arrested on the step by

his asking, miserably, for his shoemaking tools and the unfinished

shoes. Madame Defarge immediately called to her husband that

she would get them, and went, knitting, out of the lamplight,

through the courtyard. She quickly brought them down and

handed them in;and immediately afterwards leaned against the

door-post, knitting, and saw nothing.

Defarge got upon the box, and gave the word “To the Barrier!”

The postilion cracked his whip, and they clattered away under the

feeble over-swinging lamps.

Under the over-swinging lampsswinging ever brighter in the

better streets, and ever dimmer in the worseand by lighted

shops, gay crowds, illuminated coffee-houses, and theatre-doors,

to one of the city gates. Soldiers with lanterns, at the guardhouse

there. “Your papers, travellers!” “See here then, Monsieur the

Officer,” said Defarge, getting down, and taking him gravely apart,

“these are the papers of monsieur inside, with the white head.

They were consigned to me, with him, at the-” He dropped his

voice, there was a flutter among the military lanterns, and one of