wild confusion. The soldiers had heard a cry:

"La fenetre! La fenetre!"

Who gave it no one knew, no one could afterwards recollect: certain it
is that with one accord the majority of the men made a rush for the open
window, driven thither partly by the wild instinct of the chase after
an escaping enemy, and partly by the same superstitious terror which had
caused the crowd to flee. They clambered over the sill and dropped down
on to the ramparts below, then started in wild pursuit.

But when the crash came, Chauvelin had given one frantic shout:

"The letter!!!... Collot!!... A moi.... In his hand.... The letter!..."

There was the sound of a heavy thud, of a terrible scuffle there on the
floor in the darkness and then a yell of victory from Collot d'Herbois.

"I have the letter! A Paris!"

"Victory!" echoed Chauvelin, exultant and panting, "victory!! The
Angelus, friend Hebert! Take the calotin to ring the Angelus!!!"

It was instinct which caused Collot d'Herbois to find the door; he tore
it open, letting in a feeble ray of light from the corridor. He stood in
the doorway one moment, his slouchy, ungainly form distinctly outlined
against the lighter background beyond, a look of exultant and malicious
triumph, of deadly hate and cruelty distinctly imprinted on his face and
with upraised hand wildly flourishing the precious document, the brand
of dishonour for the enemy of France.

"A Paris!" shouted Chauvelin to him excitedly. "Into Robespierre's
hands. ... The letter!..."

Then he fell back panting, exhausted on the nearest chair.

Collot, without looking again behind him, called wildly for the men
who were to escort him to Paris. They were picked troopers, stalwart
veterans from the old municipal guard. They had not broken their ranks
throughout the turmoil, and fell into line in perfect order as they
followed Citizen Collot out of the room.

Less than five minutes later there was the noise of stamping and
champing of bits in the courtyard below, a shout from Collot, and the
sound of a cavalcade galloping at break-neck speed towards the distant
Paris gate.

Chapter XXXIV: The Angelus

And gradually all noises died away around the old Fort Gayole. The
shouts and laugher of the merrymakers, who had quickly recovered from
their fright, now came only as the muffled rumble of a distant storm,
broken here and there by the shrill note of a girl's loud laughter, or a
vigorous fanfare from the bras