hardened in the furnaces of suffering until the touch of pity could

make no mark on them.

But, in the ocean of faces where every fierce and furious

expression was in vivid life, there were two groups of faceseach

seven in numberso fixedly contrasting with the rest, that never

did sea roll which bore more memorable wrecks with it. Seven

faces of prisoners, suddenly released by the storm that had burst

their tomb, were carried high overhead; all scared, all lost, all

wandering and amazed, as if the Last Day were come, and those

who rejoiced around them were lost spirits. Other seven faces

there were, carried higher, seven dead faces, whose drooping

eyelids and half-seen eyes awaited the Last Day. Impassive faces,

yet with a suspendednot an abolishedexpression on them;

faces, rather, in a fearful pause, as having yet to raise the dropped

lids of the eyes, and bear witness with the bloodless lips “THOU

DIDST IT!”

Seven prisoners released, seven gory heads on pikes, the keys

Charles Dickens ElecBook Classics

of the accursed fortress of the eight strong towers, some

discovered letters and other memorials of prisoners of old time,

long dead of broken hearts,such, and suchlike, the loudly

echoing footsteps of Saint Antoine escort through the Paris streets

in mid-July, one thousand seven hundred and eighty-nine. Now,

Heave