lear, incisive, and hard,
was not raised above his breath as he said,--

"Then, as you have heard of that enigmatical personage, citoyenne, you
must also have guessed, and know, that the man who hides his identity
under that strange pseudonym, is the most bitter enemy of our republic,
of France . . . of men like Armand St. Just." "La!" she said, with a
quaint little sigh, "I dare swear he is. . . . France has many bitter
enemies these days."

"But you, citoyenne, are a daughter of France, and should be ready to
help her in a moment of deadly peril."

"My brother Armand devotes his life to France," she retorted proudly;
"as for me, I can do nothing . . . here in England. . . ."

"Yes, you . . ." he urged still more earnestly, whilst his thin fox-like
face seemed suddenly to have grown impressive and full of dignity,
"here, in England, citoyenne . . . you alone can help us. . . .
Listen!--I have been sent over here by the Republican Government as
its representative: I present my credentials to Mr. Pitt in London
to-morrow. One of my duties here is to find out all about this League
of the Scarlet Pimpernel, which has become a standing menace to France,
since it is pledged to help our cursed aristocrats--traitors to their
country, and enemies of the people--to escape from the just punishment
which they deserve. You know as well as I do, citoyenne, that once they
are over here, those French EMIGRES try to rouse public feeling against
the Republic . . . They are ready to join issue with any enemy bold
enough to attack France . . . Now, within the last month scores of these
EMIGRES, some only suspected of treason, others actually condemned by
the Tribunal of Public Safety, have succeeded in crossing the Channel.
Their escape in each instance was planned, organized and effected by
this society of young English jackanapes, headed by a man whose brain
seems as resourceful as his identity is mysterious. All the most
strenuous efforts on the part of my spies have failed to discover who
he is; whilst the others are the hands, he is the head, who beneath this
strange anonymity calmly works at the destruction of France. I mean
to strike at that head, and for this I want your help--through him
afterwards I can reach the rest of the gang: he is a young buck in
English society, of that I feel sure. Find that man for me, citoyenne!"
he urged, "find him for France."

Marguerite had listened to Chauvelin's impassioned speech without
u