As for me, the joy I should have felt at finding myself free and at sea was damped by the news of the loss of the Cigale, and with it, of my father and Tim. The hope of seeing Tim again had kept me in heart during many a trouble and danger, and now I felt more alone than ever.

In the whole world, except Con the dog, there was left me but one friend; and she, if she ever thought of me, did so as of one below her, and already dead. But that I was young and clung hard to life, I would as soon have dropped over the side of the Arrow as anywhere else, and so ended the bad business of my little history.

In a day or two, however, as the wind freshened and the great Atlantic waves pitched the Arrow like a plaything from one to the other, my spirits began to rise once more, and the cloud on my mind gave way before the cheery influence of a seaman's life.

One of the first things I discovered was that I knew far less about seamanship than I gave myself credit for. Sailing the Arrow was a very different business from sailing his honour's lumbering tubs across Lough Swilly, and I had to own that I had a great deal to learn and very little to teach before I could call myself a complete sailor. Still, I was handy, and not afraid to lend a hand at anything, from holding the helm to cooking the mate's dinner. And so, before many days were over, I had taken my place without much ado as one of the crew.

For a ship of that size, engaged in such a trade, a crew of thirty men was small enough. Most of them were foreigners, a few, like myself, Irish, and the rest English. The one thing that kept them all from quarrelling was the hope of plunder; and it was easy to guess that, in the matter of the stolen guns, although the credit of that achievement belonged to Captain Cochin alone, the men would not have agreed on this peaceable journey to France if they had not been promised a share in the fruits of the cargo when sold.

Captain Cochin found out that it is as hard to avoid the enemy's ships when you do not want them as it is to fall in with them when you do.

We had been out nearly a week, beating about against fitful winds down the west coast of Ireland, when one evening just before nightfall we sighted land on our weather-bow, and between us and it a sail bearing down our way.

As far as we could make out the stranger was a cruiser, in all probability one of the government vessels at that time stationed off Bantry Bay, on the look-out for some of the foreign smugglers and privateers that made it their hunting-ground. The light fell too suddenly to enable us to see more, but Captain Cochin flew the English colours at his mast-head, and held on his course until night hid us completely.

Then we put out into the wind and ran for the open sea, and waited for the morning.

The short midsummer night left us little waiting; and as soon as day broke, the first thing we saw, within a league of us, and bearing right across our course, was the stranger in full chase. She was a brigantine fully armed, and carrying a great spread of sail, but to our surprise she flew not the English but the French colours.

On seeing this, Captain Cochin quickly hauled down the English flag, and ran up that of his own country; but he disregarded the stranger's signal to come to, and held on with every breath of wind he could get into his canvas.

"Set a thief to catch a thief," they say. And so, the French privateer suspecting the French pirate to have good reason for running away, pressed on all sail, and gave full chase.

What surprised me most was to see that she was fast coming up on us. I had never contemplated such a thing as the Arrow being caught by anything on water; but I had to admit now I was wrong. If the Arrow was a hare, the Frenchman was a greyhound.

However, there was no time to speculate on questions of speed. The question was, should we show fight, or lie-to and explain ourselves? There was no hope of a ship like ours, so slenderly manned, being able to capture or even disable our heavily-armed pursuer. On the other hand, to surrender meant losing all our booty, and possibly our ship into the bargain; for the French, when it suited their purpose, were ready enough to take advantage of a chance of pressing a smart craft like the Arrow into their own service, especially as she bore an English name, and was known to have preyed pretty impartially on friend and foe alike.

An eager consultation took place on deck, some urging one course, some another, while some proposed to throw the cargo overboard, and one or two to scuttle the ship.

However, as good luck would have it, there was a fifth way out of the difficulty which we had little dreamed of.

"A sail on the weather-quarter!" suddenly shouted our watch.

The captain and mate went aloft to view her, and presently reported an English frigate in full sail bearing down in our direction. She seemed to be coming fast, across the wind, and by the look of her was a regular line-of-battle ship, with a double row of guns snarling from her ports.

"That settles us," said Captain Cochin, rapidly recovering his spirits. "While the lion and the tiger fight, Mister Fox slips off with the booty. Way there; keep her as she goes, master; and good-day to you, monsieur."

He spoke the truth. The Frenchman, as soon as she caught sight of the English frigate, altered her course abruptly, and instead of being the hunter became the hunted. So, for an hour or more, each of us held her own way, the Englishman closing on the Frenchman, and the Arrow sailing clear of both. Towards afternoon, the distant sound of a gun behind us told us the battle had already begun, and before nightfall the two were no doubt at it broadside to broadside.

After that, we gave the land a wide berth, and met nothing we need fear, till at last, with the French flag flying, we sailed merrily into Brest Harbour, safe and sound, without a scratch on our hull or a hole in our canvas.

But here Captain Cochin's good luck suddenly deserted him; for no sooner was he berthed, with sails stowed and anchors out, than he discovered that the French merchantman next him was none other than a vessel which on his last voyage out he had attempted to board in mid-channel, and, but for a sudden squall, would have captured and plundered. The captain of the merchantman had already reported his wrongs to the authorities; and now, finding himself cheek by jowl with the offender, lost not a moment in taking his revenge.

So, just as we were about to lower our boat for a jaunt on shore, to refresh us after our voyage, the port-admiral sent off a galley to board us, and summon us to attend on shore in irons, and show cause why we should not, each one of us, be hanged by the neck.

It was a pretty end to our jaunt, and so suddenly done that there was nothing for it but to surrender and follow where we were bidden. No doubt a smart craft like the Arrow, with a cargo of guns, was a good enough excuse for the French admiral, quite apart from our delinquencies; and at a time like this, when France lived under a reign of terror, the only excuse needed for any act, just or unjust, was the force to perform it.

You may imagine, out of all the hang-dog prisoners who marched that day through the streets of Brest, I felt myself the most ill-used; for I had sailed in the Arrow by no will of my own, and had taken part in no act of violence against any Frenchman, dead or alive. And yet, because I chanced to be among the crew, I was to be hung by the neck! I knew well enough, from what I had heard of French justice, that any excuses would be but breath wasted. Indeed, as one of the few English of the party, I should probably be spared even the farce of a trial. My only hope was that Captain Cochin, who had not been unkind to me so far, would speak a word in my favour.

We were marched to a dismal, white-washed guard-house on the edge of the town, and were there locked up by half-dozens till it suited the admiral's convenience to consider our case, and that was not till next day. The cell in which I and five of my shipmates were confined was a small, underground cellar, reeking with damp and foul smells, and lit only by a narrow grating in the ceiling, through which all night the rain poured steadily, forming a huge puddle in the middle of the earth floor.

There was one narrow bench on which we sat huddled together, to eat our scanty portion of black bread, and pass the dismal night as best we could. For my part, that night reconciled me to the prospect of a French gallows as much as anything.

In the morning we were ordered to march once more, and were brought into the presence of some official who acted as judge to try cases of misdemeanour on the high seas. With the exception of Captain Cochin and myself (I was able to speak the language a little) few of us understood French, and the formality of having the proceedings interpreted to us was not even allowed. The captain and certain of the crew of the merchantman were present and told their grievance, and with a large sweep of assumption swore that we were each as bad as the other. The judge demanded what Captain Cochin had to say, and cut him short before he had well opened his mouth.

I made a feeble effort to put myself right, not so much in any hope of moving the tribunal as of reminding Captain Cochin of my claims on his good offices. But he was too savage and perturbed to take the hint.

Then it came out that we were bringing arms into France, and were called to prove that they were not for the use of the enemies of liberty. Whom were they consigned to? They were not consigned.—Where did they come from? Ireland.—Ireland was in sympathy with France in her war against tyranny. To rob Ireland was to rob the friend of France. To whom were the arms about to be sold? To any that would buy them.—None but the enemies of France needed arms. Her sons were all armed already. Therefore the traffic was not only wicked but treasonable, and for treason there was but one punishment—death.

At this the audience, who had crowded into the court, cheered loudly.

Had we any defence? any witnesses? Of course we had none but ourselves.

Then the sentence of the court was pronounced. Captain Cochin was to be guillotined next morning. The rest of us were to be hanged in chains that afternoon, and our bodies left exposed to view for three days as a warning to pirates and traitors.

So ended our trial; and had it not been so tragic in its ending, I could have laughed at the farce of it.

We were marched back to our prison to spend the few hours that remained of our lives; and on the way our attention was directed by a friendly guard to a great gallows with accommodation on it for at least ten persons side by side. I only hoped, if it came to that, I might be in the first batch.

This time I was placed in a different cell from that I had occupied the night before. It was above ground, and lit by a larger window. Indeed, it was not intended to be used as a cell at all; but, as my jailer explained in a jocular way, he had so many guests that day that he was obliged to accommodate some of them in the soldiers' quarters, and begged monsieur (that was I) would accept his excuses for not having made more elaborate preparations for his reception. In half-an-hour or so, he said, there would be more room. If monsieur could kindly wait till then, he should have an apartment suited to his dignity.

"Monsieur is too good," said I in the politest French I could muster, thinking it wise to humour him; "but I should take it as a favour to be allowed to give up my apartment."

"By no means," said the other, slapping me on the back; "we cannot spare your company a moment before the time.—Meanwhile, make yourself at home, and receive the assurance of my profound esteem."

"There is one favour I would beg, if I might be so bold," said I. "In the short time left me I would like to write a letter to a friend."

"If it is a lady friend," said the Frenchman with a wink, "it might be allowed—provided she is fair, and I may have the honour of delivering it."

"She is fair," said I, trying hard to keep up the jest; "and I will gladly trust you with what I write to her."

The fellow was, after all, of the good-natured kind, and I think meant no harm by his jests. At any rate, after some demur, he agreed to loose my handcuffs for half-an-hour while I wrote; and having fetched me in pen and paper, left me to myself, double locking the door after him.

This was what I wanted. I waited till his footsteps died down the passage, and then crept silently to the window. It was above my reach, but by jumping I could just catch the bars and haul myself up. Not being intended as a dungeon, the bars were loosely fixed, and I found that it would be possible to remove one, and so allow room through which to squeeze. The casement itself was of the ordinary kind, and opened outwards with a simple catch-fastener.

Outside was a courtyard at the back of the guard-house, in which were scattered sundry brooms and buckets, and a pile of rubbish in one corner. By mounting this I calculated I could get my hands to the top of the outer wall; and once over that, my chance was come.

I returned to my table and pretended to be occupied with writing, while really I was listening with all my ears for any sound that might show on which side of the prison the guard was set.

The Frenchman, I believe, had been quite correct in saying that the company at present being entertained in the place was inconveniently large; and if so, the guard set over them was probably dangerously small. And if the executions were to begin at once, it was conceivable they might be still smaller as the afternoon wore on. So, though I knew that my precious half-hour was slipping by, I waited patiently for a good part of it, till presently I heard a word of command, and a confused tramp of footsteps down the passage.

This was the first batch of my luckless comrades being marched to their death, and I shuddered as I thought how near I stood to their fate.

But cost what it would I would make a dash for freedom first. I sprang to the window and hauled myself up on to the ledge. The loose bar gave way after a very little coaxing, and next minute I was out of the casement and in the little courtyard. One or two windows overlooked it, but either these were too high for any one to look from, or there was no one to look, or if there was, the attraction of the ghastly scene going on at the other side took them the other way. And to this same attraction, no doubt, was due the fact that no sentry was patrolling the back of the prison.

I succeeded by means of the rubbish heap in scaling the wall. But before leaping down on the other side, the thought occurred to me that if I could hide somewhere near till night, I should have a better chance of escaping with my pursuers ahead of me than behind me.

By following the line of the wall I found I could reach a corner of the prison where there was a blank wall, up which a gutter pipe ran to the rambling, gabled roof, where, if I could only reach it, I should hardly be looked for.

The clamber was a perilous one, especially as the heavy rain rendered the iron pipe more than usually slippery. But I was sailor enough to understand how to grip with hands and feet, and succeeded with no great difficulty in reaching the top and hiding myself away in a deep angle of the roof—not safe, indeed, but with time at least to breathe and consider what next.

Nor was I too soon; for I had not lain there two minutes before I heard a sudden shout and rush of feet in the yard below, and knew that my escape had been discovered and that a price was upon my head.



CHAPTER FOURTEEN.

THE WOOD NEAR MORLAIX.

As I expected, the hiding-place I had chosen was about the safest I could have had. For my jailers, taking note of the trampled dust-heap in the corner, and finding, moreover, my half-written letter (which I had taken the precaution to drop on the far side of the wall before I doubled on my steps), had no doubt that I had fled either towards the open country or to the harbour, where possibly I might succeed in smuggling myself on board a ship.

So, instead of increasing the sentries round the house, they actually reduced them in order to reinforce the pursuing party. My policy was to get away while the coast was comparatively unprotected, and trust to night and my good angel to get clear of the place. So, when the excitement had subsided a little, and the remaining soldiers on guard were summoned to assist at the hanging of the second batch of my shipmates, I stole from my hiding-place and, covered by the sea-mist which came with the sundown, slid down the pipe and crossed the wall, and set off as briskly as I could in an easterly direction through the outskirts of the town.

The streets were moderately crowded with wayfarers and loungers, and as I sauntered along with a big French cigar in my mouth, which had cost me two of my few remaining sous, no one paid me any particular heed. A few of the soldiers eyed me suspiciously as a doubtful character, but they were too accustomed to queer sea-dogs prowling about the place to consider me worth the trouble of a challenge.

At last I came to one of the posting taverns of the town where the coach for Paris was beginning to take up passengers in the presence of the usual curious crowd of idlers. At the present time, when everybody went in terror of his life, and to be suspected of any design against the liberties of France was the same thing as being condemned for it, it was no easy task even for the most innocent and well-conducted traveller to get clear of a town like Brest.

The few merchants and tourists and nervous women who ventured were made to pass through a row of soldiers, who examined their passports narrowly, and sometimes ordered them to stand aside for further inquiry; a command which sent the blood out of the cheeks of him who heard it, and made him think no more of the mail-coach but of the low tumbrel on which the victims of the guillotine took their last dreadful drive.

Even while I stood, there was one woman—a would-be traveller—who failed to satisfy the officer on guard, and who, on being ordered back, fell on her knees with shrieks and begged for mercy. And not one of those who stood gaping beside me but said she would be in luck if she got it.

Still more fuss was made about a horseman who demanded leave to ride forward to Paris on an errand of hot haste. He was, to all appearance, a gentleman's lackey, and, from the little I heard of the talk, spoke English easier than French. He was ordered to dismount while the officer carefully read his passport by the light of a lantern and inspected his letters of introduction and even of credit. Finally, after much suspense, he was allowed to remount, which he did in less than a moment, and clattered away through the pouring rain out into the wet night.

The sight of him made me envious indeed. What would I not give for a sound horse under me and a sound passport in my pocket!

At last the diligence was nearly ready. The luggage was stowed in the boot, and two great mail baskets were swung and padlocked on the bar underneath. The four horses were brought out and put to, and driver, guard, and officer retired to the hostel for a parting glass.

An impulse seized me then to slip out of the crowd and creep forward on the road under the deep shadow of the wall. Far I could not go, I knew, for at the barrier I should be detected and stopped. But the coach, having been so carefully inspected at its starting-point, would, I judged, be allowed through the barrier without further challenge. It should not be my fault if I did not go through with it.

The rain was pouring in sheets, and on such a night no one would be likely to walk abroad for pleasure. Nor between the hostel and the barrier was it probable that any sentinel would patrol the empty street. At any rate I met nothing, except a market-cart coming in, the occupants of which were too busy discussing the handling they had received at the barrier to look under the shadow of the wall for a vagrant boy.

At last I found a convenient place, where the road was dark as night, and where a sharp turn made it likely that the horses would be taken slowly past. Here I crouched, dripping from head to foot, for a long ten minutes.

Then my heart beat as I heard the dull rumble of the wheels, and caught the lurid glare of the two lamps coming. By the brief glance I got I saw that the guard (as I had hoped) had crouched in for shelter under the driver's hood, and that the sole occupant of the back coupe was buried under his tarpaulin.

Now was my time. I had carefully selected my point of attack. The two baskets I spoke of underneath the coach swung on double iron bars, and between the two, could I only scramble there, there was just room for me to perch, completely hidden, at any rate while night lasted, from the keenest of eyes.

I saw the driver throw himself back and pull in the reins for the corner, and in the momentary check of the speed I darted out from my hiding-place, and clambered in under the tail of the coach and reached the bars between the baskets. But for Providence I should have fallen between the wheels. As it was, the start forward of the horses carried me dragging on my toes twenty yards before I could haul myself up and lie face upwards across the bars, with my head on one basket, my feet on the other, and my nose almost rubbing the bottom of the coach.

I have, I own, travelled many a mile more comfortably, but few more happily. I had but one terror, and that was short-lived. At the barrier the coach pulled up, and the guard got down to hand in his papers, and to help himself to a spare wrapper out of the boot. Then, with a cheerful "Hi! hi!" he clambered back to his place, the barrier swung open, and we were out of Brest in the open country outside.

Little I cared that the mud plastered my back with a coat as thick as that I had on. Little I cared that the drippings of the coach fell in my mouth and eyes, and the stench of stale straw almost choked me. I was free! The noose on the gallows would remain empty for me. I was so gay I believe I even laughed under the coach.

Presently, however, I began to realise that this security was not to be for ever. When daylight came, or even sooner, should we reach the end of our first stage before, I should be able no longer to hide myself. It would be wiser to escape half-an-hour too soon than be discovered half-an-hour too late.

So when, some four hours out, I judged by the toiling of the horses we were approaching the summit of a hill, I slipped from my perch, and after running some little way under the boot, cast loose just as the driver cracked his whip and the horses started at a spanking trot down the incline.

It frightened me to find myself standing in the open road and hear the diminishing sounds of the friendly diligence. In front of me I could see the grey break of dawn struggling among the heavy clouds. Behind me swept the rain, buffeting me forward. Somewhere or other I must find shelter from the night.

No sooner had I resolved upon this than the sound of a horse approaching at full gallop sent my teeth chattering in real earnest. I had barely time to dart to the roadside and hide below the hedge when a horseman swept by. By his look he was not a soldier or an ordinary traveller, such as the courier I had seen set out from Brest. I cared little who he was, provided he rode on and let me alone. But till I lost all sound of him I spent an uneasy time in the ditch.

As soon as the August dawn gave me a view, I found myself on the top of a great exposed heath, across which the road reached for a mile or so, and then plunged downwards into a thick wood. Towards this wood I hastened with all the speed I could. Here at least I could lie hid a while till my next chance turned up.

That chance was nearer than I thought. About half-way through the wood the road forked into three, one way on either hand striking deep among the trees; that in the middle holding straight on, and by the marks of wheels being evidently the highroad. I struck to the right some way, and then quitted the road altogether for a glade in the wood which seemed to lead to denser shelter.

I had scarcely left the track when I was startled by the sound of a voice and a groan close by. Had I wanted to retreat I could hardly have done so unseen, but a glance in the direction from which the sound proceeded held me where I was.

A horse stood quietly nibbling the grass, and on his back, fallen forward, with arms clasping the beast's neck, and head drooping helplessly downward, was his rider, bleeding from a pistol wound in the neck, and too weak even to disengage his feet from the stirrups. In a single glance I recognised the horseman who had ridden ahead of the coach.

A pistol, evidently dropped from his hand, lay on the grass, and his hat lay between the horse's feet.

If life was not already extinct, it was fast ebbing away. I lifted him as gently as I could and laid him on the grass. He opened his eyes, and his lips moved; but for a moment he seemed choked. I tried with some moss to stanch his still bleeding wound, but the groan he gave as I touched him caused me to desist.

Then he tried to speak something in French.

"What is it?" said I, in English.

A look of quick relief came into his face.

"Ride forward with the letters—for God's sake—promise."

Even in the feeble, broken words I could recognise a countryman.

"Yes," said I.

"Horses—at each post—my purse," he gasped.

"I promise I will do as you ask—as I am an Irishman and a Christian."

That seemed to satisfy him.

"Your hand," said he, at last.

I gave it to him, and as it closed on his he groaned, and died.

It had all happened so suddenly that for a minute or two I knelt where I was, with my hand still in his, like one in a dream. Then I roused myself, and considered what was to be done.

The dead man was a good-looking youth, scarcely twenty, dressed in the habit of a gentleman's groom, and evidently, by the smartness of his accoutrement, in the employ of some one of importance. As to how he had come by his death I could only guess. But I suspected the horseman I had seen galloping back towards Brest in the morning twilight had had something to do with it. The highwayman had met the traveller, and shots had been exchanged—the one fatal, the other telling enough to send the bandit flying. The poor wounded fellow had had strength enough to turn his horse into the wood and cling to his seat. How long he had stayed thus, slowly bleeding to death, I could not say; but the diligence must have passed that way two hours ago, and he must have been well ahead of it when his journey was thus suddenly stopped.

Then I recalled his dying words, and after tethering the horse set myself to look for the papers he spoke of. I found them at last—the passport in his breast pocket, whence he could easily produce it, the others in his belt. The former described the bearer as John Cassidy, travelling from Paris to Dublin and back on urgent private business, duly signed and countersigned. It gave a description of the bearer, even down to the clothes he wore: I supposed to enable any official who passed him from one point of his journey to another to identify him. The letters were two in number, one addressed to Citoyen Duport, a Deputy of the National Convention, and marked with the greatest urgency. The other—and this startled me the most—to one George Lestrange at Paris, with no other address. Lestrange! The name called to mind one or two memories. Was not the gay young officer I had once ferried across to Rathmullan a Lestrange—a kinsman of my lady; and was not Biddy McQuilkin of Kerry Keel, who once set her cap at my father, in the service of this same Lestrange's aunt in Paris? Strange if this hot errand should concern them! All things considered, I decided that the wisest thing would be for me to put on the dead man's clothes, and make myself in general appearance as near to the description of the passport as possible. In fact, for the rest of this journey I must be John Cassidy himself, travelling post to Paris, with a horse waiting on him at each stage, a purse full of money, a pistol, and a belt containing two urgent letters of introduction. Little dreamed I when I sneaked out of Brest under the belly of that lumbering diligence that I was to go to my journey's end in this style!

Before I started I buried the dead man, and along with him my cast-off clothes, in a pit in the wood, which I covered over with leaves and moss. Then I mounted my horse, stuck my loaded pistol in my belt, commended my ways to Heaven, and cantered on in the face of the rosy summer dawn towards Paris.



CHAPTER FIFTEEN.

A RAT-TRAP IN THE RUE D'AGNES.

The worth of my credentials was very soon put to the test; for an hour's ride brought me to Morlaix, where, as I had learned from a hastily scrawled list of places on the cover of the passport, I was to expect my first fresh horse.

Here there was some grumbling at my lateness and wondering as to the cause of it. For the diligence guard had reported that I (or rather he whom I represented) had started ahead of the coach from Brest, and should have passed Morlaix three hours in front.

Whereupon I explained that I had been attacked by a highwayman, and obliged to hide in the woods till daylight. At which they laughed, and said if I chose to travel to Paris alone on horseback, instead of journeying as most honest citizens did, I must expect to be shot at. Then I was ordered into the conciergerie while my passport and papers were examined.

It was lucky for me I had put on the dead man's clothes, and that the description chiefly related to these. As regards personal appearance I was described as young, beardless, with blue eyes, brown hair, and "nothing remarkable," which equally well described me as it did poor John Cassidy.

"Who is your master?" demanded the officer.

"Citoyen Lestrange," said I boldly, "an Irishman resident in Paris."

"Where have you been?"

"To Dublin, to see my master's agent, Mr Patten."

"Is this Monsieur Patten's letter?"

"That to my master is his. That to the Citoyen Duport is from a French gentleman in Dublin whose name I do not know."

It hurt me to tell so many lies in one breath. But I must needs have some story to tell, and prayed Heaven to forgive me for this.

To my relief the officer seemed satisfied, and I gathered that the Citoyen Duport must be a man of consequence in Paris.

"Pass, John Cassidy," said he, handing me back my papers.

The same ceremony awaited me at each halting-place, and I realised before I was half-way to Paris that it was no easy matter for a stranger to travel in France in those days. What would have become of me but for the accident in the wood near Morlaix it were hard to say.

But though I had much to congratulate myself on, I confess that as I drew near to the capital I had much to perturb me. At every halting- place on the way there were some who shrugged their shoulders when they heard I was going to Paris. Paris, I heard it whispered, was no safe place just then even for a Frenchman, still less for a stranger. The streets were flowing with the blood of those whose only crime was that they were suspected of not being the friends of the people. As to my passport, it would be of little use to me unless I could give a fit account of myself and my masters. As for Citoyen Duport, if I once put my head in his jaws I need not expect to see it on again. And as for my letter to Citoyen Lestrange, I had better carry it in the sole of my stocking, and let no one know I bore a missive to any Englishman or Irishman in Paris. My wisest course, so one frank official at Alencon told me, was to know no French, to have no errand but my letter to Citoyen Duport; that delivered, he thought I should save trouble if I shot myself through the head.

All this was very alarming; and I began to doubt, when at last I caught sight of the towers and domes of Paris in the distance, whether I should not have been better off after all hiding in the caves under Fanad, or dangling on the gallows beside Brest harbour.

At the barrier, however, things fell out easier for me than I had feared. For, just as I arrived, a common cart on the way out had been stopped and searched, and in it, hidden in a wood packing-case, had been unearthed some notorious enemy of the people, over whose detection there was great rejoicing, and the promise of a famous execution in the morning. For all these reasons the soldiers and officials into whose hands I fell were in high good-humour, and after scanning my passport and the letter to the deputy let me go by.

I had followed the advice of my late counsellor, and forgotten all the little French I knew, and had hidden the letter to Citoyen Lestrange in my stocking. Whether I was to carry out the rest of his advice remained to be seen.

The officer at the barrier retained my passport, saying it was done with, from which I concluded that now I was in Paris there was little hope of getting out of it again. So, feeling like a mouse in a trap, I parted company with my horse, my passport, and even my pistol (of which I was also relieved), and walked forward into the noisy city, wishing I only knew where to go next.

Presently I came into a long narrow street, where the houses overhead slanted towards one another and nearly shut out the light of heaven. Poles stuck out from the windows, on which hung clothes or signs or legends; the sight of which, swaying in the wind, mingled with the foul odour and the noise and the jostling crowd, fairly dazed a country boy like me. How, in such a place as this, was I to find what I wanted— namely, a meal and a night's lodging?

At last, in front of me, there swung a flaunting sign—"A l'Irlandois"— at which I cheered up. Here, at any rate, in the midst of this noisome babel, seemed to come a whiff from the old country, and I felt like a castaway in sight of land.

But before I had time to reach the place the whole street seemed suddenly to go mad. First there was a yell and a roll of drums at the end by which I had entered. Then every window seemed alive with people, straining forward with howls and execrations and clenched fists. From every door below poured forth a crowd, who fought with one another for a place next the roadway, waved their red caps, and shouted in a wild sort of chant some French song. In the rush stalls and barrows were overturned, but there was no one to heed; children were trampled on, but no one heard their cries; pockets were picked, but there was no one to miss their loss; windows were smashed, but there was no one to feel a draught. To my wondering fancy, all Paris had suddenly turned into this narrow Rue d'Agnes and there run mad.

I noticed that the one thing all were agreed upon, was to keep a clear space in the roadway, and strain their necks impatiently in the direction of the drums; and soon enough the reason of all this excitement became clear. Drawn by a single horse, and escorted by a troop of National Guards, came a low open cart, in which sat two persons, deadly white, gazing in a dazed vacant way at the scene around them, and sometimes casting a reproachful glance at the slowly plodding horse. One of the two was an old man, of fine, aristocratic presence, which the coarse clothes he wore could not disguise. The other was a low ruffian, with swollen face and bleared eyes, in the dress of a butcher. Between the two, except that they were on their way to death, there was nothing in common. Till to-day they had never met, and after to-day they would never meet again. The crime of one, so I heard, was that he was related to an aristocrat; that of the other, that he had murdered his own daughter. For both offences the law of France just then had but one penalty. And of the two, he who was most execrated and howled at and spat upon was the gentleman.

In less time than it takes to write it the show had passed. A few of the crowd followed to see the end of the business. The rest, for the most part, returned to their callings, and before the drums were out of hearing the Rue d'Agnes was once more a plain, dirty, ordinary Paris street.

With a heart a good deal weighted by what I had seen, I turned into the Cabaret "a l'Irlandois." If I had expected to find anything there to remind me of my own country, I was sorely disappointed. A few blouse- clad idlers sat at a table, smoking and drinking sugar and water, and discussing the news of the day with their host, a surly-looking fellow, who, whatever his inn might be, was himself a common type of Frenchman. "Now?" demanded he as I approached. "Monsieur," said I in English, "I desire a bed and some food."

"Speak French," said he in English. "I speak no French," replied I in French. Whereupon one of the idlers was summoned as interpreter. I knew French enough to hear in the words that passed between him and mine host the two expressions "spy" and "money," and I wished I had never come into the place. But it was not easy to get out now without confirming the suspicion, and I deemed it wise to appear indifferent.

"If monsieur can give me a bed, I will put up with him," said I to the interpreter; "if not—"

"Citizen Picquot sees his money before he sells his wares," said the other.

I laid a gold piece on the table. "Citizen Picquot is a wise man," said I.

Then followed a cross-examination of me, prompted by the cautious Picquot and interpreted by his ally.

"Who was I? Where did I come from? Why did I seek a lodging at his house of all others? How long was I going to stay? What was my occupation in Paris? How much more money had I got?" and so on.

To all of which I answered my best; and when I produced my letter to the Depute Duport they treated me more ceremoniously. I was shown to a room, the like of which for filth I had never slept in before, and shall never, I hope, sleep in again. It was a large chamber, the boards of which were furred with mildew, and the valance on the bed was dropping off with rottenness. Generations of cats had haunted it and slept on the coverlet. The dungeon at Brest was fresh and sweet compared to it. Yet Citizen Picquot smilingly demanded two francs a night and the price of my candle.

"Monsieur is safe here," said he, forgetting, as did I, that I knew no French. "I had a guest, a week ago, who was found by the Guards and taken before the Tribunal and guillotined. He would have been safe too, but we had a difference about money, and I denounced him. It was only a week ago. They will not search my house again for a month to come. Monsieur will be quite safe; but if, alas, he perish (and who is quite safe in these days?), I will myself protect his effects, and see his letter to the depute duly forwarded."

All this was vastly consoling.

"Apropos," said I, "cannot I deliver my letter this evening?"

"This evening," said my host with a shrug; "it is death to approach a depute a la Convention Nationale after the seance is closed. The last who did it was Mademoiselle Corday, and she— In the morning, monsieur, when the Convention sits, you shall deliver your letter; till then, peace and sound repose." And he bowed himself out.

I knew not much of the world, but I knew enough to wish myself out of this rat-trap. To try to escape just now would, I saw, be futile. Yet to spend the night there meant, if not murder, at least robbery and pestilence. A brave face was the only thing to put upon the business, and I followed Citizen Picquot downstairs and called for food and drink, in which I invited not him only but his gossips to join me.

I noticed that the door was carefully locked when any one came in or went out, and that any chance motion of mine in that direction was quickly intercepted. So the evening wore on, and presently the lights of the cabaret were extinguished, and my host passed me my candle and again bade me good-night.

I went up by no means gaily. Three other men, I observed, were still in the house, and would in all probability join in the attack upon me. I had parted with my pistol. The door was without a lock. The window was shuttered from the outside. My only arms were a small pocket-knife and my belt.

I took the precaution to secrete my letter to the deputy, along with that to Mr Lestrange, in my boot, and the little money I had left I tied up in the tail of my shirt. Then I considered that the only safe place for me that night was to sit on the floor with my back against the door and my heels against the foot of the bed, which chanced to stand at just the required length. In this posture, even if I fell asleep, any attempt to force the door would arouse me; and if the door was reasonably sound I could reckon, with my back and feet, on keeping it fast against the four, at any rate for a while.

I had a long time to wait. They evidently meant to give me time to fall asleep, and themselves, perhaps, time to consume some more of the cognac which my money had provided. I was indeed almost dozing when my ears caught the sound of an unsteady footstep on the stairs and a whispering of voices below. Then the footstep stopped outside my door, and a hand cautiously turned the handle.

"The young dog smells a rat," muttered my landlord, with a hickup which gave me some hope.

"True for you, monsieur," replied I, in as good French as I could muster. "I can shoot rats as well as smell them." And I made the blade of my knife give a click that sounded for all the world like the cocking of a pistol.

"Armed!" ejaculated the tipsy scoundrel. "God have mercy! Pardon, monsieur, I came to see if you were comfortable."

"Monsieur citoyen is too good. I am most comfortable, and beg to be waked at cock-crow. Bonsoir."

I knew of course that was not the end of him, but while he stumbled downstairs to take counsel with his comrades I had at least time to breathe. I peeped out of the door. All was dark, and there was no sound but the ticking of the great Dutch clock in the shop below.

The clock! I had noticed it that evening—a great unwieldy structure like a coffin on end, and a dial above. If I could but get down to it, while my assailants were up despatching me, I might yet have a chance of eluding them. I could hear them discussing together at the foot of the stairs, and presently advance once more to the charge, not this time with my host as an advance-guard, but all together. I slipped out into the passage, and hid in a dark corner at the head of the stairs, so close, indeed, that they all but brushed against me in passing.

"Alors, il dort," said my host, listening for a moment. "No; he moves. All together now."

And with one accord they hurled themselves against the door, which of course offered no resistance, and admitted them toppling one over the other into the room.

I waited no longer, but slipped down the stairs and into the clock. I had to displace the pendulum to do it, but trusted to the muddled condition of the enemy not to miss the ticking.

After a while they came down in a towering rage, blaming one another for what had happened. They were just in the humour to be quarrelsome, and as I stood motionless in my narrow sentry-box I heard as pretty a battle of words as it has ever been my lot to listen to.

Their one comfort was that I could not be far away. Either I had gone out by the window, in which case I had undoubtedly broken my neck; or I was down in the cellar, in which case I would keep till morning. "Meanwhile, comrades, let us drink long life to the Republic, and down with the Girondists."

So to drink they fell, but were hardly settled when a loud summons came at the outer door, and a shout of, "Open, in the name of the Republic One and Indivisible!"

Then did mine host quake in his shoes, and his comrades turned pale.

"To bed!" whispered my host with trembling voice. "Go up and sleep."

They were not long in obeying, and that night the bed that was meant for me held three of the soundest sleepers in all France.

The knocking continued, and mine host, feigning a great yawn, took down his key and asked who was there.

"Citoyen Picquot, open to the National Guard."

The door opened, and half-a-dozen soldiers trooped into the shop.

"Produce your lodgers," demanded the soldier in command.

"I have but three, citizen soldier. Follow me, they shall be at your service."

The officer followed my host upstairs; the others remained below. Presently I heard a loud outcry and scuffling of feet above, and a shouted word of command. The soldiers instantly rushed up the stairs.

But no speed of theirs could equal that with which I darted from my hiding-place and out at the open door into the street, thanking Heaven that whatever rats might be caught that night in the Rue d'Agnes I was not one of them.



CHAPTER SIXTEEN.

"VIVE LA GUILLOTINE!"

It was midnight when I got clear of the Auberge "a l'Irlandois" in the Rue d'Agnes, and being a fine, warm autumn night I was by no means the only occupant of the street. This was fortunate for me, for the guards posted at either end would have been more inquisitive as to a solitary stranger than one of a company of noisy idlers.

That night there had been a great performance in one of the theatres in Paris, which had lasted far into the night, and was only lately over. Those I overheard speak of it said it had been a great patriotic spectacle, in the course of which National Guards and cadets had marched across the stage, unfurling the banner of the Republic, and taking the oath of the people amid scenes of wild enthusiasm and shouting. To add to the enthusiasm of the occasion a party of real volunteers had appeared, and after receiving the three-coloured cockade from their sweethearts, had shouldered their guns and marched, singing the Marseillaise, straight from the theatre to the road for La Vendue, where they were going to shed their blood for their country.

The audience had risen, waving hats and handkerchiefs to bid them God- speed, and then poured forth into the streets, shouting the chorus, and cheering till they were hoarse and tired.

It was into a party of such loyal revellers that I found myself sucked before I was half-way out of the Rue d'Agnes; and yelling and shouting at the top of my voice I passed safely the guards, and reached the broad Rue Saint Honore. Here the crowd gradually dispersed, some one way, some another, while a few, with cries of "A la Place," held on in company. With these I joined myself, and presently came to a great open square, where on a high platform stood a grim and terrible looking object. "Vive la guillotine!" shouted the crowd as they caught sight of it.

It was strangely lit up with the glare of the torches of some workmen who were evidently busy upon it. I could see the fatal knife being raised once or twice and let fall with a crash by way of experiment. And each time the crowd cheered and laughed, and invited one of their number to ascend the platform and put his head in the empty collar. It made me sick to watch it, yet for safety's sake I had to shout "Vive la guillotine!" with the rest of them, and laugh with the loudest.

Presently some one near noticed me and caught me by the arm.

"Here is one that will do, Citoyen Samson. Lift him up, comrades. Let us see if the knife is sharp enough."

At the touch of his hand I broke into a cold sweat, and clung to his knees amid shouts of laughter. It was all very well for them, who were used to such jests. I was new to it, and fell a victim to a panic such as I have never known since. A herculean strength seemed to possess me. I flung my tormentors right and left, and darted away from them into the dark recesses of the surrounding gardens. They began by giving chase, but in the end let me go, and returned to their more congenial spectacle, and presently, tired even of that, went home to bed.

It was an hour before I durst look out from my hiding-place in the midst of a clump of thick bushes. I could still see the guillotine looming in the moonlight; but the workmen, like the sightseers, had gone. The only living persons were a few women, who had seated themselves on one of the benches in front of the instrument, evidently determined on a good view of to-morrow's spectacle.

I retreated to my hiding-place with a shudder, glad I was too far away to overhear their talk.

But if I heard not theirs, I heard, oddly enough, another conversation, so near that had it been intended for my ears it could not have taken place in a better spot.

One of the speakers, by his voice, was an Englishman, of more than middle age; the other, a woman, who also spoke English, but with a foreign accent.

This is what I heard, and you may guess how much of it I comprehended:—

"No news yet?" said the old man anxiously.

"None. I expected to hear before this."

"Who is the messenger?"

"A trusty servant of madame's, and an Irishman."

"So much the worse if he is caught."

There was a pause. Then the old man inquired,—

"What hope is there for Sillery?"

"Absolutely none. He is as good as guillotined already."

"Has Edward no influence then?"

"Not now. Duport is no longer a man, but a machine—deadly, mysterious, as yonder guillotine. He would denounce me, his wife, if the Republic demanded it."

"God forbid! for you are our last friend."

Then there was another pause, and the man spoke again. He was evidently broken-down by terror, and engrossed in his own safety.

"My fear now is," he said, "that, if Sillery is doomed, the messenger should deliver Edward's letter to Duport at all. It will only make matters worse for us."

"Very true. It is no time for appeals to mercy," said Madame Duport. "But you said you expected a letter for yourself."

"Ay; money to escape with. That's all I live for."

"Money from Edward?"

"No. From my kinswoman, Alice Gorman.—Hush! what was that?" he cried, breaking into a whisper.

"Only a falling leaf.—How was she to reach you?"

"She was to send it to Edward, and he would forward it by the same messenger that carried his letter to Duport."

"Pray Heaven that be lost too," said the lady. "You are safer in Paris. Besides, money without a passport will avail nothing."

The old man gave a bitter laugh.

"They all desert me," said he querulously. "My nephew never shows sign; Sillery is to perish, you fear to speak to me; even my poor wife chides me."

"Surely Madame Lestrange—"

Here I started again, and slight as was the sound it broke up the conference. They separated, one in either direction, the lady gliding towards the benches in front of the guillotine, the old man (whom I now knew to be Mr Lestrange) creeping under the shadow of the trees, and presently lying at full length on a seat apparently fast asleep.

I curled myself up on a seat not far off, where I could watch him without being seen by him. A little before dawn he got up, and after carefully looking up and down the road, walked hurriedly back towards the Place de la Revolution, where he lost himself among the now increasing groups who mustered in the grey light for an early seat at the spectacle of the hour.

I dropped into a seat not far off, and in the distance, among a row of pale, hard, fatigued faces, I could see the deputy's wife, who never looked our way, but sat with her eyes fixed on the dreadful machine.

The old man looked across at her once and again, and then tried nervously to join in the general talk, and nod assent to the loyal sentiments of those who crowded near.

As for me, I was too sick even to keep up appearances, and was thankful when one rough interloper shouldered me from my place and sent me sprawling down among the feet of the onlookers.

"Shame! Let the young citoyen have a view," called some one.

"We are all equal," said the usurper. "Let him take the place from me, and he may have it."

I declined the challenge, and slunk off at the back of the crowd, which was all too busy and expectant to heed whether I got a view or not.

What I heard that morning was bad enough. There was the sound of the drums and the dull rumble of wheels, drowned by yells and shouts from the men and screams from the women; then a silence, when no one stirred, but every neck was craned forward to see; then a sudden tap of the drum; then the harsh crash of the knife; then a gasp from a thousand throats, and a great yell of "Vive la Liberte." Three times I heard it all. Then the spectacle was at an end, and the crowd dispersed.

I kept a keen look-out among the groups that straggled past me for the bent figure of Mr Lestrange, but no sign of him could I see. After all, thought I, this errand of mine to Paris was to be all for nothing, when close by I perceived Citoyenne Duport walking aloof from the crowd and bending her steps towards the gardens. I resolved, cost what it might, not to lose sight of her, and followed her at a distance till the paths were quite deserted.

Then I quickened my steps and came up with her.

"Madame Duport," said I boldly, "I am the messenger you and Mr Lestrange expect."

She looked round at me with blanched face, and held up her hand with a gesture of silence.

"No, no," said she, "I am not Madame Duport. You mistake, my friend."

"Madame need not fear me; I am no mouchard. I overheard all you and Mr Lestrange said last night. Here is the letter I bear to Depute Duport. Either I must deliver it myself or ask madame to do so."

She held out her hand for it.

"We are at your mercy," said she. "Is this from Lord Edward himself?"

"I know nothing of it, madame," said I, and recounted the story of how I had come by the missive in the wood near Morlaix.

She sighed, and said,—

"John Cassidy is happier where he lies than we are. Is this your only missive?"

"No; I have a letter for Mr Lestrange, and beg you to tell me his address."

At that moment she looked round, and gave a little scream as first a footstep, then a voice, fell on her ear.

"Adele," said a lean, bilious-looking man, with a hard, pinched face and knit lips, approaching from one of the side-walks—"Adele, what do you here?"

"My husband," said the lady, so far recovering her composure as to smile and advance to meet him, "you are come in a good moment. This lad bears a missive for you, and, having discovered me in the crowd, was begging me to deliver it for him. Here it is."

Duport took the letter with a frigid glance at me as if to say he believed not a word of the story, and mechanically tore it open.

I watched his eyebrows give a sudden twitch as he read the contents.

"Who gave you this?" demanded he.

I repeated my story, which once more he received with an incredulous stare.

Then turning to his wife he said, half to himself, half to her,—

"From Edward Fitzgerald on behalf of his kinsman, Sillery. But too late. Come, Adele. The twenty-two are before the Tribunal to-day, and I have a place for you in the gallery."

And without heeding me further (for which I was devoutly thankful), he drew his wife's arm in his own and walked off rapidly in the direction of the Tuileries.

Lest my reader should suppose that my letter to Depute Duport was one of great moment to my own story, let me say at once it was not so, at least directly. It was, as the deputy had said, a letter addressed by Lord Edward Fitzgerald, a young Irish nobleman (of whom more hereafter), to Duport, claiming, for the sake of old comradeship, his good offices on behalf of one of the twenty-two impeached Girondist deputies, Sillery by name, whose adopted daughter, or, rather, the adopted daughter of whose wife, Lord Edward had lately married. Many letters of the kind were no doubt constantly coming into the hands of powerful members of the Convention just then; and many, like it, came too late.

Next morning, so I was told, the whole of the accused, and Sillery first of the batch, were guillotined; the headsman doing his work with such dexterity that in thirty-one minutes the twenty-two were all disposed of.

My letter to Mr Lestrange (which I still carried in my stocking) was another matter, and concerned me considerably, especially now that I understood it was from my lady at Knockowen. Where to find him I knew not, and to be found with the letter on me might compromise not merely me but him and his Irish kinsfolk.

All things considered, I decided to read the letter and commit it to memory, and then destroy it, hoping my good intentions might be excuse enough for the breach of faith. And, indeed, when that afternoon I sought a sheltered place in the woods and produced the soiled and stained letter from my stocking, I was glad I had done what I did.

"Dear Cousin," wrote my lady at Knockowen, "I hear there is a chance of getting a letter to you by the messenger who is to carry back Lord Edward's petition on behalf of the poor Marquis Sillery. Your nephew, Captain Lestrange, told us of his trouble when he was here in the summer, and gave us to understand there was little to be hoped for. If Sillery perish, your position in Paris will be painful indeed. I would fain send you the money you ask for, but Maurice keeps me so low in funds that I cannot even pay for my own clothes. I trust, however, your nephew may bring you some relief, as he spoke of going to Paris this autumn on a secret mission for the English Government. Affairs with us are very bad, and, indeed, Maurice succeeds so ill in winning the confidence of either party, loyalist or rebel, that he talks of sending me and Kit over to you till times are better here. Take the threat for what it is worth, for I should be as sorry as you would, and I hear Paris is a dreadful place to be in now. But you know Maurice. Kit is well, but all our troubles prey on her spirits. I suspect if your nephew were in Paris, she would be easier reconciled to our threatened pilgrimage than I. Between ourselves, my dear cousin, as Maurice now holds all the mortgages for your Irish estates, it would be well to keep in with him, even if the price be a visit from your affectionate cousin,—

"Alice Gorman."

"P.S.—I forget if you are still in the Quai Necker, but am told Lord Edward's messenger will know where to deliver this."

Such was my lady's letter, and you may guess if it did not set the blood tingling in my veins, and make Paris seem a very different place from what it was an hour before.

I carefully read and re-read the letter till I had it by heart, and then as carefully tore it into a thousand pieces and scattered them to the wind. The one sentence referring to Captain Lestrange's visit as an agent for the British Government was (little as I yet knew of the state of affairs in Paris) enough to hurry the innocent folk to whom it was addressed to the guillotine. What if my little lady and her mother were by this time in this terrible city and liable to the same fate?

I spent that afternoon wandering along the river on both banks, seeking for the Quai Necker, but nothing of that name could I find. The names were mostly new, and in honour of some person or place illustrious in the Revolution. At last, in despair, I was giving up the quest, when on an old book-stall I lit upon a plan of Paris dated ten years ago.

The bouquineur, a sour fellow whose trade had evidently suffered in recent months, would by no means allow me to look at it till I had paid the five sous he demanded, which I was glad enough to do. And after a very little study I found the Quai Necker marked down near the cathedral; and having carefully noted its bearings, I carried my map to a stall higher up, where I sold it for eight sous, thus making one of the most profitable bargains I ever struck.

Before dark, and while all Paris was ringing with the news that the twenty-two unfortunate Girondists were to be executed next morning, I found myself standing in a shabby passage beside the river, under the shadow of the great cathedral of Notre Dame.



CHAPTER SEVENTEEN.

THE OVERTURNED DILIGENCE IN THE RUE SAINT ANTOINE.

For a night or two I haunted the Quai without success. If Mr Lestrange really lived there, he was either too fearful of venturing out, or some misadventure had already befallen him. I durst not make any inquiries, for fear of attracting attention to him, which was the last thing any one desired just then.

At last one night, after a week's patient waiting, and when the lightness of my own, or rather poor Cassidy's purse reminded me that I should soon have to seek, among other things, for my daily bread, I was skulking off for my lodging, when a woman hurried past me, whom, in the momentary glimpse I got of her, I recognised as Biddy McQuilkin, my father's old gossip of Kerry Keel.

"Whisht, Biddy," said I, laying my hand on her arm, "is it you? Sure, I'm Barry Gallagher, and I'm looking for your master, Mr Lestrange."

She gave a gasp of terror as she felt my hand on her.

"Saints help us! what a fright you gave me, Barry, my boy. Sure, it's not safe to be seen speaking with any one in the streets. I'm told there's fifty more to die to-morrow!"

"I'll follow you; you needn't fear me; and I've a message for the master."

"Thank God for that, if it's a good one!" said she. "Keep close on the other side, and mark where I go in. I will leave the door open; we are on the top stage." And she darted across the road.

I kept her well in view, till she disappeared at the door of a tall, dingy house of some six stories high. The bottom floor was occupied by a seller of wreaths and candles for worshippers at the cathedral—a poor enough business in those days. Above him was a dresser of frills and lace shirt-fronts; and above this were various tenants, some with callings, some with none, all apparently needy, and glad of the chance of hiding in so economical a tenement. A list of the occupants was hung on the door, by order of the Convention, and the names of Lestrange, femme, et domestique, duly figured upon it. A common staircase led to all the floors, but I encountered no one as I toiled to the top of all, where stood Biddy, with her finger up, motioning to me to be silent.

It went to my heart to see the two poor rooms into which I was ushered— one occupied as a bedroom and sitting-room by the old couple, the other as a kitchen and bedroom by Biddy. The walls were plain plaster, behind which you could hear rats running. The ceiling was low and black with smoke, the windows small and broken. The furniture, once good, was faded and in rents; and the few luxuries, such as books and pictures, looked so forlorn that the place would have seemed more comfortable without them.

All this I took in as I advanced into the room at Biddy's heels.

"Plaze, yer honour, this is Barry Gallagher from Knockowen with a message for yez."

Mr Lestrange sat dozing beside the fire, with a Moniteur on his knee. His wife, a sweet and placid-looking woman, sat opposite him knitting.

At the sound of Biddy's announcement both started to their feet.

"A message!" exclaimed Mr Lestrange; "what message?"

"None too cheery," said I, anxious not to raise false hopes.

I then recounted my adventures by the road, and ended up with reciting the contents (or most of them) of the letter from my lady at Knockowen. I took care to omit the little sentence about Miss Kit's interest in Captain Lestrange's movements, which did not seem to me worth recalling.

Mr Lestrange's face fell heavily as he heard me out.

"No money!" he groaned. "We are still penned here. Yes, to be sure, you did well to destroy the letter. I thought Alice would have sent something—"

"Maybe she will bring some help with her," said his lady.

The selfish old man laughed bitterly.

"She brings herself and her girl—a pretty help in times like these. Thank God, there is no room in the house for them!"

"You forget they cannot have heard of our losses. When last they heard of us we had received Gorman's money for the mortgage, and were in comfort. It is since then that all has been confiscated."

"That mortgage was robbery itself," said Mr Lestrange. "Gorman knew I was hard hit, and not likely to stand out for a bargain, and he took advantage of it. The estates are worth treble what he gave."

"That is past and gone," said the lady. "We must be patient. Perhaps Felix will help us."

"My nephew is a selfish man," said the old gentleman; "besides, he has but his pay. And now he has no expectations from us we need not expect him to come near us."

All this talk went on while Biddy and I stood near, hearing it all. At last the sturdy Biddy could stand it no longer.

"Hoot! take shame to yourself, Mr Lestrange. Thank God you're not one of the fifty that ride in the tumbrel the morrow; thank God you've got a sweet wife that will bear with your grumblings; and thank God you've got a body like me that's not afraid to tell you what I think of yez. Hold yer tongue now, and get to your beds."

Biddy, as I learned later on, had stuck of her own accord to her master and mistress through all their troubles, and presumed on her position to take her chicken-hearted lord severely to task when, like to-night, the grumbling fit was upon him.

As for me, I was dismissed with little thanks from anybody; but Biddy bade me call now and again to have a crack with her.

"I had a liking for your father, poor soul!" said she, wiping a corner of her eye, "and thought he might have done worse than make me a mother to you and Tim, rest his soul! But it's as well as it is, maybe. Poor Tim! I always liked him better than you. He was his mother's son. Well, well, he's dead too. Barry, my boy, we can't all just have what we've not got; we all have to stand out of our own. Good-night to yez, and come and see an old body sometimes that held you in her arms when you were a fine kicking boy."

I confess Biddy puzzled me a little by her talk. Whenever she spoke of old days she had the air of keeping a secret to herself, which roused my curiosity, and made me recall my poor mother's dying words to myself. That set me thinking of Kilgorman and the strange mystery that hung there; and that set me on to think of Knockowen, and his honour and my lady and Miss Kit; and so by the time I had reached my shabby kennel in the Rue Saint Antoine, I was fairly miserable and ready to feel very lonely and friendless.

However, I was not left much time to mope, for in the night the street was up with a rumour that a "federalist" deputy, who was known to be in the pay of Pitt, the English minister, had been traced to some hiding- place near, and that a strict house-to-house search was being made by the soldiers for him.

"A bas les mouchards! a bas Pitt! a bas les etrangers! Vive la guillotine!" shrieked the mob.

Whereat I deemed it prudent to join them and shriek too, rather than await the visit of the soldiers. Not, thought I, that any one would do me the honour of mistaking me for an agent of Mr Pitt; but there was no knowing what craze the Paris mob was not ready for, or on what slight pretext an innocent man might not be sent to the scaffold.

So I sneaked quietly down the stairs, where, alas! I found I had fallen from the frying-pan into the fire.

A file of soldiers was ready for me, and received me with open arms.

"Your name, your business, your destination," demanded they.

"Citizen soldiers, my name is Gallagher; I am a stranger in Paris in search of occupation."

"Enough. You are arrested. Stand aside!"

"But, citizen—"

A stroke with the flat of the soldier's sword silenced me, and I gave myself up for lost. But as a prisoner of the Revolution I should at least not be lonely, and on the guillotine itself I should have company.

The soldiers were too intent on watching for further fugitives to do more than keep me in sight of their loaded pistols. That was bad enough, however, and would have sufficed to land me in the Conciergerie, had not an alarm of fire, followed by volumes of smoke, just then proceeded from a house opposite that in which the fugitive deputy was supposed to be hidden. A rush took place for the spot and the loud sounding of the tocsin down the street, and in the midst of the confusion I dived between the legs of my captors, upsetting the one who covered me with his pistol, so that the weapon went off harmlessly over my head, and next moment I was safe in the thick of the crowd, struggling for a view of the fire.

It was a strange, motley crowd, composed not only of the rascality of Paris, but of a number of shopkeepers and respectable citizens whom the rumour of the fire and the arrest of the notorious deputy had called on the scene at this midnight hour. Many of the faces lit up by the lurid glare of the flames were haggard and uneasy, as if they belonged to those who, like me, found a crowd the safest hiding-place in those days. A few seemed drawn together by a love of horror in any form. Others were there for what they might steal. Others, sucked in by the rush, were there by no will of their own, involuntary spectators of a gruesome spectacle.

Among the latter were the unfortunate occupants of a travel-stained coach, who, after surviving all the perils of the road between Dieppe and Paris, had now been suddenly upset by the crowd, and were painfully, and amid the coarse jeers of the onlookers, extricating themselves from their embarrassing position. Just as the tide swept me to the spot, a male passenger had drawn himself up through the window and was scrambling down on to terra firma.

"Help the ladies!" cried he, glad enough evidently of his own escape, but not over-anxious to return to the scene of his alarm; "help the ladies, some one!"

Just then, first a hand, then a pale face appeared at the window, which, if I had seen a ghost, could not have startled me more. It was the face of Miss Kit, with the red light of the fire glowing on it.

"Help us!" she said, in French.

Need I tell you I had her in my arms in a moment; and after her her mother, who was not only frightened but hurt by the shock of the overturn.

That little moment was worth all the perils and risks of the past months; and if I could have had my own way, I would have stood there, with my little lady's hand clutching my arm, for a month.

It was impossible they could recognise me, with my back to the light, happening upon them in so unlooked-for a way. But when I said, "Trust to me, Miss Kit," her hand tightened on my sleeve with a quick pressure, and she said,—

"Barry! thank God we are safe now!"

I was a proud man that night as I fought my way through the crowd with two distressed ladies under my wing, and a fist and a foot for any one who so much as dared to touch the hem of their garments.

Mrs Gorman became so faint in a little that I was forced, as soon as we were out of the thick of the crowd, to call a vehicle.

The soldiers at the end of the street, when they saw who our party was, and heard that we were passengers in the overturned carriage, let us go by; "for we had been already well overhauled at the barrier," said they.

Once clear—and she kept her hand on my arm all the time—Kit said,—

"Then you are alive still, Barry?"

"Ay, Miss Kit; and ready to die for you."

"This is a dreadful place!" said she with a shiver, looking up at the high houses we passed; "but it was worse before you found us."

How could I help, by way of answer, touching her hand with mine, as if by accident?

"We are to go to the Hotel Lambert, Rue Boileau," said she; "and to- morrow we are to seek our kinsmen the Lestranges."

"I have found them," said I.

Here Mrs Gorman looked up.

"Found them? That is good; we shall have shelter at last."

"Alas, mistress," said I, "they have lost all their goods and are living in great poverty. It will be poor shelter."

Here the poor lady broke down.

"O Kit!" moaned she, "why did your father send us on this cruel journey? Did he want to be rid of us before our time?"

"Nonsense, mother; he thought we should be safer here than among the Leaguers in Donegal. So we shall be—at least we have Barry to protect us."

Whereat we drove up at the Hotel Lambert.



CHAPTER EIGHTEEN.

DAYS OF TERROR.

I confess, delighted as I was to find again my lady and my little mistress, I could have wished them anywhere but in Paris at such a time as this. How they reached the place at all it was difficult to understand, till I heard that they had crossed from Dublin under the escort of a prominent member of the Jacobin Club, with whom his honour had large dealings in the matter of arms, and who had provided the necessary passports.

"Indeed," said Miss Kit, "the soldiers everywhere were so respectful to us that I think Monsieur Cazin must have passed us off as his wife and daughter. At any rate he accompanied us into Paris, only quitting us at the barrier, and has promised to call on us at the hotel to-morrow. See here is his letter to the maitre d'hotel, in which he states that we are French ladies, kinswomen of his own."

The maitre d'hotel, when he read the letter, made no difficulty about admitting "les citoyennes Cazin" as he entered them in his book, and their valet. So for that night, at least, we were safe. And as both ladies spoke French fluently, and I tolerably, we passed well enough for what we were not.

But I disliked the whole business, still more when I heard from some of the attendants in the hotel that this citizen Cazin was a man looked askance upon by some of his own party, and reputed to be both greedy and heartless.

If I could have had my own way, I would have tried that very night to get them out of the city they had been at so much trouble to reach. But they were worn-out with fatigue and anxiety, and were fain to lay their heads anywhere. Before the night was out their baggage, rescued from the overturned diligence, was brought to the hotel, labelled (as I could not help noticing) with the name "Cazin," which only involved us all in deeper complication and trouble.

Next day we waited for the promised visit from my ladies' travelling companion, but he never came. And in the evening we discovered the reason. The maitre d'hotel demanded admission to their apartment and announced, with a roughness very different from his civility of the night before, that at the Convention that day several suspected persons had been denounced, among others the citizen Cazin, for having been in traitorous treaty with the enemies of the Republic. In a few hours it would become known that he had travelled to Paris with two ladies, and it was as much as his (my host's) neck was worth to allow those ladies to remain another hour in his house. Indeed his duty was to inform the authorities at once who his guests were.

Happily for us his hotel had been visited by the police only the night before—ere the travellers arrived—and he had not yet exposed their names on his list. But it was known that the baggage, delivered last night, bore the name of the suspected Cazin, and that was enough to ruin us all.

You may fancy the distress of the ladies at this news. All they could do was to hand one of their little rolls of assignats to the landlord, and promise that within an hour he should be rid of them.

"But the baggage," said mine host, who, in the midst of his perturbation, saw his way to a solatium for himself; "I must detain that, and hand it over if required."

"But it is not Monsieur Cazin's; it is my lady's, who is no connection of the suspect," said I.

"If the ladies cannot part with their baggage," said mine host, fumbling the notes, "they must remain here with it. I confiscate it in the name of the Republic One and Indivisible."

It was no use arguing or appealing; our only hope lay in civility.

"Citizen host," said I, "is quite right, and the ladies are grateful for his consideration. Their name is Lestrange. They know nothing of Citizen Cazin or his baggage, and they bid adieu to the Hotel Lambert forthwith."

The cunning landlord, having gained his ends, returned to his civility.

"The ladies," said he, "are wise. But they will do well to put on the garments of plain citoyennes, which I can provide, in exchange for what they wear; otherwise they may be traced. That done, they will do well to leave my poor house on foot with the young Citoyen Lestrange," (here he pointed to me), "and forget to return."

It was good advice, though it went to my heart to see my mistresses further robbed. But when presently they appeared in the plain garb of common Parisiennes I confess I felt relieved, for no one who saw them would suspect them of being foreign ladies, though any one would be bound to admit they were two very fair women. As for me, I was not long in bartering my livery coat for the blue blouse of a workman; and thus that afternoon, as the light was beginning to fail, and all the world was talking of the execution of the beautiful Madame Roland, which was to take place in the morning, three humble persons quitted the side door of the Hotel Lambert and bent their steps dolefully towards the bridge that led across to the Quai near the Island of the City, once known as Quai Necker.

We hoped that here at least we should find a retreat until it was possible to consider what next should be done.

Leaving the ladies to inspect the stalls which lined the river, I ascended first to announce their arrival; but half-way up the long stairs I encountered a middle-aged woman with sour, haggard face, who demanded my business.

"I desire to see Madame Lestrange, who lives on the highest stage," said I.

"Madame Lestrange lives there no longer," said she with a shrug. "Last night she and her husband and their servant were put under arrest on the accusation of Depute Duport, for holding connection during his life with the traitor Sillery."

"Arrested!" exclaimed I, staggered at the news.

"Arrested," said she dryly, "and are now at the Austin Convent. To- morrow, perhaps, we may hear of them at the Place."

This was too terrible, but I durst not betray my horror.

"Then," said I, "if that is so, the top stage is vacant. I am seeking lodgings for my mother and sister and myself, and had hoped Madame Lestrange could have helped me."

"The top floor is vacant," said the woman, brightening up, for the calamity of the day had robbed her of her tenants, "to any one who can pay five francs a week."

"We can do that," said I, "and can pay you in advance."

"Enough," said the woman, holding out her hand greedily.

I brought the ladies up, breaking the news about their kinsfolk on the way, and imploring them to keep up appearances. The landlady scrutinised them sharply, and demanded what their occupation was.

"We are seamstresses, my child and I," said my lady; "and my son earns what he can at the stables."

"If you are good workers," said the woman, "I can give you some employ. Come up and see your rooms."

It was a sad introduction, that of these delicate ladies to the squalid apartments of their arrested kinsfolk. But they kept up bravely; only when the woman departed with her first five francs in her hand, they fell on the little shabby sofa and broke into tears.

But miserable as we were, we were at least safe for a while; and as the weeks followed one another—terrible weeks for Paris—we grew not only more reconciled to our lot, but sometimes almost happy.

We gave ourselves the name of Regnier, and in a little time our sour landlady fulfilled her promise of finding work for the ladies' needles. As for me, I lit on occupation close by, with a man who let horses for hire, and here once more I found myself engaged in the old familiar occupation of the Knockowen days. The ladies rarely ventured out, and when they did it was usually after dark, and always under my escort.

Somehow or other our common lot, the common garb we wore, and the common dependence we felt on one another, made our make-believe little family into something very like a real one. When the day's work was done, and the candle was lit and the log thrown on the fire, it was hard not to forget that I was after all only a poor serving-man to these two ladies. They were so grateful and gentle to me, and my little lady's eyes, when sometimes they met mine, were wont to light up so brightly, that, had I been less strict with myself, I should have been—tempted, many a time, to presume on all this kindness, and give myself the airs and privileges of an equal. But Heaven kept me in mind of what was due to her; and though I loved her secretly, she was always my little mistress when we were together.

I was not long in hearing, among other things, the news of what had happened at Knockowen since I left. When my overturned boat had drifted ashore, they all set me down as dead, some with regret, some with indifference, some with relief.

Among the latter, I guessed, was his honour, who never took kindly to me, and bestowed more dislike on me, I always thought, than my importance deserved. However, my absence did not make much difference.

"It was dreadful after you had gone," said my little mistress. "We never knew what would happen next. Father could not keep friends with both sides, and yet he durst not break with either. The house was fired into from time to time by the Leaguers; and yet he continued to obey their biddings and wink at all the smuggling of arms and secret drilling that went on, which he, as a magistrate, ought to have stopped. Oh dear, it was hard to know what to wish! And one day he was summoned by some other magistrates to lead a party to capture the crew of a smuggling ship. He sent Martin off secretly to give them warning; but somehow Martin failed to deliver his message in time, and the smugglers were caught. Then he was in dread lest they should betray him, and used all his efforts to let them escape. Then, when one night they broke bonds, he led a hue and cry after them for appearance' sake, but, of course, in a wrong direction, and in consideration of all this he was let alone by the League. Mr Cazin then came over and stayed at Knockowen a week, collecting all the arms he could get, and making himself polite to mother and me. My father, who desired to be rid of us that he might follow his own plots, saw a way, at last, of getting out of his difficulty, and handed the Frenchman over a large number of guns which had been intended for the Donegal men, on condition he would see us safe to Paris."

"And where is his honour, meanwhile?" I asked.

"I can't say, Barry. Not, I think, at Knockowen. He has written us not a line, though we have written several times to him. I sometimes wish we were safe back at home," said she with a sigh.

Well might she wish it, for that winter Paris was a hell upon earth!

For a time I succeeded in keeping away the shadow of "the terror" from that little top storey in the Quai Necker. The ladies knew that blood was being shed, that liberty was being extinguished, that holy religion was being spurned, in the world below them. But the tumbrels that made their daily ghastly journey did not pass their way. They heard nothing of the roll of drums, of the shrieks of the mob, of the dull crash of the knife, of the streams of blood, in the Place. They saw nothing of the horrors of the prison-houses, in which, day by day, and week by week, the doomed citizens made their brief sojourn on the road to death. They did not even know, as I did, that one evening, in one of the sad batches which rode from the Austin Convent to the Conciergerie, and next morning from the Conciergerie to the guillotine, rode a broken-down couple called Lestrange, and beside them, in the same cart, the ci- devant Citizen Cazin.

As the Citoyennes Regnier sat patiently and knitted red caps for the blood-drunken citizens without, their gentle ears may have caught occasional shouts and rushings of feet, and they may have guessed something of the tragedies that were being enacted below. But they kept their own counsel, and looked out seldom from the little window, and talked in whispers of the shadows that flitted across Lough Swilly, and the happy life that was to follow after all this buffeting and exile.

Alas! that was not to be yet. For all their courage, their cheeks grew daily more pale; and into that little damp, cold attic, from which they never ventured except at night, and where, as poverty gradually entered by the window, the fire went out on the hearth, the stress of "the terror" at last penetrated.

Our hostess, the grim woman of whom I spoke, was the first to lose nerve, and during the day, when I was away, would come and retail some of the horrors she herself had witnessed. I could tell by their blank looks when I returned that some one had been tampering with their peace, and I fear the warmth with which I expostulated with the disturber did us all no good.