my own will?”

“You are a cursed emigrant,” cried a farrier, making at him in a

furious manner through the press, hammer in hand; “and you are

a cursed aristocrat!”

The postmaster interposed himself between this man and the

rider’s bridle (at which he was evidently making), and soothingly

said, “Let him be; let him be! He will be judged at Paris.”

“Judged!” repeated the farrier, swinging his hammer. “Ay! and

condemned as a traitor.” At this the crowd roared approval.

Checking the postmaster, who was for turning his horse’s head

to the yard (the drunken patriot sat composedly in his saddle

looking on, with the line round his wrist), Darnay said, as soon as

he could make his voice heard:

“Friends, you deceive yourselves, or you are deceived. I am not

a traitor.”

“He lies!” cried the smith. “He is a traitor since the decree. His

life is forfeit to the people. His cursed life is not his own!”

Charles Dickens ElecBook Classics

At that instant when Darnay saw a rush in the eyes of the

crowd, which another instant would have brought upon him, the

postmaster turned his horse into the yard, the escort rode in close

upon his horse’s flanks, and the postmaster shut and barred the

crazy double gates. The farrier struck a blow upon them with his

hammer, and the crowd groaned; but no more was done.

“What is this decree th