der yet, Vengeance, with a little oath or so added,

and yet it will hardly bring her. Send other women up and down to

seek her, lingering somewhere; and yet, although the messengers

have done dread deeds, it is questionable whether of their own

wills they will go far enough to find her!

“Bad Fortune!” cries The Vengeance, stamping her foot in the

chair, “and here are the tumbrils! And Evremonde will be

dispatched in a wink, and she not here! See her knitting in my

hand, and her empty chair ready for her. I cry with vexation and

disappointment!”

As The Vengeance descends from her elevation to do it, the

tumbrils begin to discharge their loads. The ministers of Sainte

Guillotine are robed and ready. Crash!a head is held up, and the

knitting-women, who scarcely lifted their eyes to look at it a

moment ago when it could think and speak, count One.

The second tumbril empties and moves on; the third comes up.

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Crash!And the knitting-women, never faltering or pausing in

their work, count Two.

The supposed Evremonde descends, and the seamstress is

lifted out next after him. He has not relinquished her patient hand

in getting out, but still holds it as he promised. He gently places