e suddenly
encountered, before there was time to avoid it, the most terrible of all
crowds--that which escorted a _condamne_ to his execution. It was in
vain I tried to draw the ladies aside; the mob was upon us before we
could escape. I had seen many a Paris mob before, but none so savage or
frantic as this. The poor doomed man, one Bailly (as I heard
afterwards, formerly a mayor of Paris), stood bare-headed, cropped, with
hands tied behind him, and with only a thin shirt to protect him from
the cold. His face, naturally grave and placid, was so marred and
stained with mud and blood as to be almost inhuman. At every step of
the way the people hurled dirt and execrations upon him, laughing at his
sorry appearance, and goading on one another to further insult. By
sheer force they were carrying him, guillotine, executioner, and all to
a great dirt-heap by the river-bank, where only they would permit the
deed of death to be performed.

Just as this ghastly procession passed us, a missile, better aimed than
most, sent the poor wretch staggering to his knees, and in the rush that
followed he was happily hidden from our sight.

But the two poor ladies had seen enough. Miss Kit's beautiful face was
white as marble, her lips quivered, and her hands clenched in a spasm of
self-control. Her mother, less strong, tottered and fell heavily on my
arm in a faint.

It was a terrible position just then, for to be suspected of pity for a
_condamne_ was an offence which might easily place the sympathiser on
the tumbrel beside the victim. I observed one or two faces--brutal,
coarse faces--turned our way, and overheard remarks not unmingled with
jeers on the lady's plight. Happily for us, a new humour of the crowd,
to make their poor prisoner dismount and carry his own guillotine, swept
the crowd in a new direction, and in a moment or two left us standing
almost alone on the path.

It was some time before my lady could recover enough to leave the place.
Still longer was it before we had her safe in the attic on the Quai
Necker; and ere that happened more than one note of warning had fallen
on my ears.

"Save yourselves; you are marked," whispered a voice, as we came to the
Quai.

I looked sharply round. Only a lame road-mender was in sight, and he
was too far away to have been the speaker. The voice was that, I
thought, of a person of breeding and sympathy, but its owner, whoever he
was, had vanished.

"There they are,