anchor from the deep, might have been easily found. He did not

seek it, but repeated them and went on.

With a solemn interest in the lighted windows where the people

were going to rest, forgetful through a few calm hours of the

horrors surrounding them; in the towers of the churches, where

no prayers were said, for the popular revulsion had even travelled

that length of self-destruction from years of priestly impostors,

plunderers, and profligates; in the distant burial-places reserved,

as they wrote upon the gates, for Eternal Sleep; in the abounding

gaols; and in the streets along which the sixties rolled to a death

which had become so common and material, that no sorrowful

story of a haunting Spirit ever arose among the people out of all

the working of the Guillotine; with a solemn interest in the whole

life and death of the city settling down to its short nightly pause in

fury; Sydney Carton crossed the Seine again for the lighter streets.

Few coaches were abroad, for riders in coaches were liable to

be suspected, and gentility hid his head in red nightcaps, and put

on heavy shoes, and trudged. But. the theatres were all well filled,

and the people poured cheerfully out as he passed, and went

chatting home. At one of the theatre doors, there was a little girl

with a mother, looking for a way across the street through the

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