olded arms at the

fountain, looking at the pillar of fire in the sky. “It must be forty

feet high,” said they, grimly; and never moved.

The rider from the chateau, and the horse in a foam, clattered

away through the village, and galloped up the stony steep, to the

prison on the crag. At the gate, a group of officers were looking at

the fire; removed from them, a group of soldiers. “Help, gentleman

officers! The chateau is on fire; valuable objects may be saved

from the flames by timely aid! Help, help!” The officers looked

towards the soldiers who looked at the fire; gave no orders; and

answered with shrugs and biting of lips, “It must burn.”

As the rider rattled down the hill again and through the street,

the village was illuminating. The mender of roads, and the two

hundred and fifty particular friends, inspired as one man and

woman by the idea of lighting up, had darted into their houses,

and were putting candles in every dull little pane of glass. The

general scarcity of everything, occasioned candles to be borrowed

in a rather peremptory manner of Monsieur Gabelle; and in a

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moment of reluctance and hesitation on that functionary’s part,

the mender of roads, once so submissive to authority, had

remarked that carriages were good to make bonfires with, and

that post-horses would roast.