night to help them out of it, and they passed on once more into

solitude and loneliness: jingling through the untimely cold and

wet, among impoverished fields that had yielded no fruits of the

earth that year, diversified by the blackened remains of burnt

houses, and by the sudden emergence from ambuscade, and sharp

reining up across their way, of patriot patrols on the watch on all

the roads.

Daylight at last found them before the wall of Paris. The barrier

was closed and strongly guarded when they rode up to it.

“Where are the papers of this prisoner?” demanded a resolutelooking

man in authority, who was summoned out by the guard.

Naturally struck by the disagreeable word, Charles Darnay

requested the speaker to take notice that he was a free traveller

and French citizen, in charge of an escort which the disturbed

state of the country had imposed upon him, and which he had paid

for.

“Where,” repeated the same personage, without taking any

heed of him whatever, “are the papers of this prisoner?”

The drunken patriot had them in his cap, and produced them.

Casting his eyes over Gabelle’s letter, the same personage in

authority showed some disorder and surprise and looked at

Darnay with a close attention.

He left escort and escorted without saying a word, however,

and went into the guard-room; meanwhile they sat upo