drive him with

their gunslike this!”

He imitated the action of a man’s being impelled forward by the

butt-ends of muskets.

“As they descend the hill like madmen running a race, he falls.

They laugh and pick him up again. His face is bleeding and

covered with dust, but he cannot touch it; thereupon they laugh

again. They bring him into the village; all the village runs to look;

they take him past the mill, and up to the prison; all the village

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sees the prison gate open in the darkness of the nightand

swallow himlike this!”

He opened his mouth wide as he could, and shut it with a

sounding snap of his teeth. Observant of his unwillingness to mar

the effect by opening it again. Defarge said, “Go on, Jacques.”

“All the village,” pursued the mender of roads, on tiptoe and in

a low voice, “withdraws; all the village whispers by the fountain;

all the village sleeps; all the village dreams of that unhappy one,

within the locks and bars of the prison on the crag, and never to

come out of it, except to perish. In the morning, with my tools

upon my shoulder, eating my morsel of black bread as I go, I make

a circuit by the prison, on my way to my work. There I see him,

high up, behind the bars of a lofty iron cage, bloody and dusty as

last night, looking through. He has no hand free, to wave to m