boom smash and rattle, and the furious sounding of the living sea;

but, still the deep ditch, and the single drawbridge, and the

massive stone walls, and the eight great towers, and still Defarge

of the wine-shop at his gun, grown doubly hot by the service of

four fierce hours.

A white flag from within the fortress, and a parleythis dimly

perceptible through the raging storm, nothing audible in it

suddenly the sea rose immeasurably, wider and higher, and swept

Defarge of the wine-shop over the lowered drawbridge, past the

massive stone outer walls, in among the eight great towers

surrendered!

So resistless was the force of the ocean bearing him on, that

even to draw his breath or turn his head was as impracticable as if

he had been struggling in the surf at the South Sea, until he was

landed in the outer courtyard of the Bastille. There, against an

angle of a wall, he made a struggle to look about him. Jacques

Three was nearly at his side; Madame Defarge, still heading some

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of her women, was visible in the inner distance, and her knife was

in her hand. Everywhere was tumult, exultation, deafening and

maniacal bewilderment, astounding noise, yet furious dumb-show.

“The Prisoners!”

“The Records!”

“The secret cells!”

“The instruments of torture!”

“The Prisoners!”