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close their eyes, and think, or try to get their straying thoughts

together. Only one, and he a miserable creature, of a crazed

aspect, is so shattered and made drunk by horror, that he sings,

and tries to dance. Not one of the whole number appeals by look

or gesture, to the pity of the people.

There is a guard of sundry horsemen riding abreast of the

tumbrils, and faces are often turned up to some of them, and they

are asked some question. It would seem to be always the same

question, for it is always followed by a press of people towards the

third cart. The horsemen abreast of that cart, frequently point out

one man in it with their swords. The leading curiosity is, to know

which is he; he stands at the back of the tumbril with his head

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bent down, to converse with a mere girI who sits on the side of the

cart, and holds his hand. He has no curiosity or care for the scene

about him, and always speaks to the girl. Here and there in the

long street of St. Honore, cries are raised against him. If they move

him at all, it is only to a quiet smile, as he shakes his hair a little

more loosely about his face. He cannot easily touch his face, his

arms being bound.

On the steps of a church, awaiting the coming-up of the

tumbrils, stands the Spy and prison-sheep. He looks into the first

of th