night, and drive away!”

The Spy withdrew, and Carton seated himself at the table,

resting his forehead on his hands. The Spy returned immediately,

with two men.

“How then?” said one of them, contemplating the fallen figure.

“So afflicted to find that his friend has drawn a prize in the lottery

of Sainte Guillotine?”

“A good patriot,” said the other, “could hardly have been more

afflicted if the Aristocrat had drawn a blank.”

They raised the unconscious figure, placed it on a litter they

had brought to the door, and bent to carry it away.

“The time is short, Evremonde,” said the Spy, in a warning

voice.

“I know it well,” answered Carton. “Be careful of my friend, I

entreat you, and leave me.”

“Come, then, my children,” said Barsad. “Lift him, and come

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away!”

The door closed, and Carton was left alone. Straining his

powers of listening to the utmost, he listened for any sound that

might denote suspicion or alarm. There was none. Keys turned,

doors clashed, footsteps passed along distant passages: no cry was

raised, or hurry made, that seemed unusual. Breathing more

freely in a little while, he sat down at the table, and listened again

until the clock struck Two.