changes upon him. The prisoner was like a young child in his

hands.

“Carton! Dear Carton! It is madness. It cannot be

accomplished, it never can be done, it has been attempted, and

has always failed. I implore you not to add your death to the

bitterness of mine.”

“Do I ask you, my dear Darnay, to pass the door? When I ask

that, refuse. There are pen and ink and paper on this table. Is your

hand steady enough to write?”

“It was when you came in.”

“Steady it again, and write what I shall dictate. Quick, friend,

quick!”

Pressing his hand to his bewildered head, Darnay sat down at

the table. Carton, with his right hand in his breast, stood close

beside him.

“Write exactly as I speak.”

“To whom do I address it?”

“To no one.” Carton still had his hand in his breast.

“Do I date it?”

“No.”

The prisoner looked up, at each question. Carton standing over

him with his hand in his breast, looked down.

“‘If you remember,’” said Carton, dictating, “‘the words that

passed between us, long ago, you will readily comprehend this