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