essly condemned and summarily executed, whatever
his nationality might be. And this band of young Englishmen had, to her
own knowledge, bearded the implacable and bloodthirsty tribunal of the
Revolution, within the very walls of Paris itself, and had snatched away
condemned victims, almost from the very foot of the guillotine. With a
shudder, she recalled the events of the last few days, her escape from
Paris with her two children, all three of them hidden beneath the hood
of a rickety cart, and lying amidst a heap of turnips and cabbages, not
daring to breathe, whilst the mob howled, "A la lanterne les aristos!"
at the awful West Barricade.

It had all occurred in such a miraculous way; she and her husband had
understood that they had been placed on the list of "suspected persons,"
which meant that their trial and death were but a matter of days--of
hours, perhaps.

Then came the hope of salvation; the mysterious epistle, signed with
the enigmatical scarlet device; the clear, peremptory directions; the
parting from the Comte de Tournay, which had torn the poor wife's heart
in two; the hope of reunion; the flight with her two children; the
covered cart; that awful hag driving it, who looked like some horrible
evil demon, with the ghastly trophy on her whip handle!

The Comtesse looked round at the quaint, old-fashioned English inn, the
peace of this land of civil and religious liberty, and she closed her
eyes to shut out the haunting vision of that West Barricade, and of the
mob retreating panic-stricken when the old hag spoke of the plague.

Every moment under that cart she expected recognition, arrest, herself
and her children tried and condemned, and these young Englishmen, under
the guidance of their brave and mysterious leader, had risked their
lives to save them all, as they had already saved scores of other
innocent people.

And all only for sport? Impossible! Suzanne's eyes as she sought those
of Sir Andrew plainly told him that she thought that HE at any rate
rescued his fellowmen from terrible and unmerited death, through a
higher and nobler motive than his friend would have her believe.

"How many are there in your brave league, Monsieur?" she asked timidly.

"Twenty all told, Mademoiselle," he replied, "one to command, and
nineteen to obey. All of us Englishmen, and all pledged to the same
cause--to obey our leader and to rescue the innocent."

"May God protect you all, Messieurs," said the Comtesse,