standing and lying about. The light in the guardhouse, half

derived from the waning oil lamps of the night, and half from the

overcast day, was in a correspondingly uncertain condition. Some

registers were lying open on a desk, and an officer of a coarse,

dark aspect, presided over these.

“Citizen Defarge,” said he to Darnay’s conductor, as he took a

slip of paper to write on. “Is this the emigrant Evremonde?”

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“This is the man.”

“Your age, Evremonde?”

“Thirty-seven.”

“Married, Evremonde?”

“Yes.”

“Where married?”

“In England.”

“Without doubt. Where is your wife, Evremonde?”

“In England.”

“Without doubt. You are consigned, Evremonde, to the prison

of La Force.”

“Just Heaven!” exclaimed Darnay. “Under what law, and for

what offence?”

The officer looked up from his slip of paper for a moment.

“We have new laws, Evremonde, and new offences, since you

were here.” He said it with a hard smile, and went on writing.

“I entreat you to observe that I have come here voluntarily, in

response to that written appeal of a fellow countryman which lies

before you. I demand no more than the opportunity to do so

without delay. Is not that my right?”

“Emigrants have no rights, Evremonde,” was the stolid reply.

The officer wrote until he had finished, read over