passionate readiness to sacrifice it.

As a whirlpool of boiling waters has a centre point, so, all this

raging circled round Defarge’s wine-shop, and every human drop

in the caldron had a tendency to be sucked towards the vortex

where Defarge himself, already begrimed with gunpowder and

sweat, issued orders, issued arms, thrust this man back, dragged

this man forward, disarmed one to arm another, laboured and

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strove in the thickest of the uproar.

“Keep near to me, Jacques Three,” cried Defarge; “and do you,

Jacques One and Two, separate and put yourselves at the head of

as many of these patriots as you can. Where is my wife?”

“Eh, well! Here you see me!” said madame, composed as ever,

but not knitting today. Madame’s resolute right hand was

occupied with an axe, in place of the usual softer implements, and

in her girdle were a pistol and a cruel knife.

“Where do you go, my wife?”

“I go,” said madame, “with you at present. You shall see me at

the head of women, by-and-by.”

“Come then!” cried Defarge, in a resounding voice. “Patriots

and friends, we are ready! The Bastille!”

With a roar that sounded as if all the breath in France had been

shaped into the detested word, the living sea rose, wave on wave,

depth on depth, and overflowed the city to that point. Alarm-bells

ringin