emed to Marguerite as if they encircled a gigantic graveyard.

The town-crier had evidently ceased to read the proclamation. One by
one the windows in the public square were lighted up from within. The
citizens of Boulogne wanted to think over the strange events which had
occurred without their knowledge, yet which were apparently to have such
direful or such joyous consequences for them.

A man to be captured! the mysterious English adventurer of whom they
had all heard, but whom nobody had seen. And a woman--his wife--to be
guarded until the man was safely under lock and key.

Marguerite felt as if she could almost hear them talking it over and
vowing that she should not escape, and that the Scarlet Pimpernel should
soon be captured.

A gentle wind stirred the old gnarled trees on the southern ramparts, a
wind that sounded like the sigh of swiftly dying hope.

What could Percy do now? His hands were tied, and he was inevitably
destined to endure the awful agony of seeing the woman he loved die a
terrible death beside him.

Having captured him, they would not keep him long; no necessity for a
trial, for detention, for formalities of any kind. A summary execution
at dawn on the public place, a roll of drums, a public holiday to mark
the joyful event, and a brave man will have ceased to live, a noble
heart have stilled its beatings forever, whilst a whole nation gloried
over the deed.

"Sleep, citizens of Boulogne! all is still!"

The night watchman had replaced the town-crier. All was quiet within
the city walls: the inhabitants could sleep in peace, a beneficent
government was wakeful and guarding their rest.

But many of the windows of the town remained lighted up, and at a little
distance below her, round the corner so that she could not see it, a
small crowd must have collected in front of the gateway which led into
the courtyard of the Gayole Fort. Marguerite could hear a persistent
murmur of voices, mostly angry and threatening, and once there were loud
cries of: "English spies," and "a la lanterne!"

"The citizens of Boulogne are guarding the treasures of France!"
commented Chauvelin drily, as he laughed again, that cruel, mirthless
laugh of his.

Then she roused herself from her torpor: she did not know how long she
had stood beside the open window, but the fear seized her that that man
must have seen and gloated over the agony of her mind. She straightened
her graceful figure, threw back her proud