ew behind him, undergoing his punishment sent a balm
through his heart, overburdened as it was with revengeful malice. He
smiled. It eased his mind to think that some human being at least was,
like himself, not altogether at peace with mankind.

He turned and took a last look at the lonely bit of coast, where stood
the wooden hut, now bathed in moonlight, the scene of the greatest
discomfiture ever experienced by a leading member of the Committee of
Public Safety.

Against a rock, on a hard bed of stone, lay the unconscious figure of
Marguerite Blakeney, while some few paces further on, the unfortunate
Jew was receiving on his broad back the blows of two stout leather
belts, wielded by the stolid arms of two sturdy soldiers of the
Republic. The howls of Benjamin Rosenbaum were fit to make the dead rise
from their graves. They must have wakened all the gulls from sleep, and
made them look down with great interest at the doings of the lords of
the creation.

"That will do," commanded Chauvelin, as the Jew's moans became more
feeble, and the poor wretch seemed to have fainted away, "we don't want
to kill him."

Obediently the soldiers buckled on their belts, one of them viciously
kicking the Jew to one side.

"Leave him there," said Chauvelin, "and lead the way now quickly to the
cart. I'll follow."

He walked up to where Marguerite lay, and looked down into her face. She
had evidently recovered consciousness, and was making feeble efforts to
raise herself. Her large, blue eyes were looking at the moonlit scene
round her with a scared and terrified look; they rested with a mixture
of horror and pity on the Jew, whose luckless fate and wild howls had
been the first signs that struck her, with her returning senses; then
she caught sight of Chauvelin, in his neat, dark clothes, which seemed
hardly crumpled after the stirring events of the last few hours. He was
smiling sarcastically, and his pale eyes peered down at her with a look
of intense malice.

With mock gallantry, he stooped and raised her icy-cold hand to his
lips, which sent a thrill of indescribable loathing through Marguerite's
weary frame.

"I much regret, fair lady," he said in his most suave tones, "that
circumstances, over which I have no control, compel me to leave you here
for the moment. But I go away, secure in the knowledge that I do not
leave you unprotected. Our friend Benjamin here, though a trifle the
worse for wear at the present moment, w