ttlefield where they
can yell their war crys and their war songs; their weapon is the
guillotine, and the guillotine is always victorious. The enemy, cursed
aristocrats, and others not aristocrats but equally cursed because they
differ from the people and the people's demigods, are foredoomed to
defeat and death. Only one thing is lacking, sufficient enemies that the
guillotine may not stand idle. Each day must bring its excitement. The
denizens of the slums and alleys of Paris must have their amusement day
by day. The inhabitants of the narrow streets off the Rue Charonne have
forgotten the American they hunted so fiercely, although Richard
Barrington waiting in his underground prison does not know it. They are
yelling, half afraid of their own audacity, for another victim. They
gather daily, in another part of the city, by the Riding Hall close to
the Tuileries. There is excitement in plenty here. In the Rue Charonne
one might walk in safety.

From the Temple prison an aristocrat, more, a king, has been brought to
answer the charges made against him. They are charges only recently
framed and strangely got together. Save that he is a king, which he
cannot help, what charges can be brought against him? None. There are
many who would make them on the flimsiest foundation, but even such a
foundation does not exist. Danton himself cannot send a king to the
Place de la Revolution for nothing. That would be to dare too greatly.
They have found nothing at the Tuileries or at Versailles to condemn
him. Roland has had diligent search made, fearful perchance of some
letters of his own being found; even the cesspools of the palace have
been dragged. There is no result worth the trouble. No drawer has any
secret to give up save one which has no accusation in it, a child's
letter, simple, loving wishes for a happy New Year, signed by the
little Dauphin, addressed to "My dear Papa." Little enough can Roland
make out of this, for he has no ability to understand even the pathos of
it. Then one day there comes from Versailles, one, Francois Gamain by
name, a locksmith of that place, a coward fearful for his own safety.
The king has been fond of lock-making, something of the craft Gamain has
taught him, and the king has shared a secret with him. There is a
hiding-place in a corridor behind the king's bedroom, which Gamain has
helped to make, which he now shows to Roland. There are papers there,
many of them, enough in them to prepare ev