th you!"

The door of Leroy's cell was thrown open in its turn, and he found
himself confronting a group of drunken ruffians. One of these--a
red-capped giant with long, black mustaches and a bundle of ropes over
one arm suddenly pounced upon him. The cocassier was an active, vigorous
young man. But, actuated by fear and discretion, he permitted himself
tamely to be led away.

Along the stone-flagged corridor he went, and on every hand beheld his
fellow-prisoners in the same plight, being similarly dragged from their
cells and similarly hurried below. At the head of the stairs one fellow,
perfectly drunk, was holding a list, hiccupping over names which he
garbled ludicrously as he called them out. He was lighted in his task by
a candle held by another who was no less drunk. The swaying pair seemed
to inter-support one another grotesquely.

Leroy suffered himself to be led down the stairs, and so came to the
porter's lodge, where he beheld a half-dozen Marats assembled round a
table, with bumpers of wine before them, bawling, singing, cursing, and
cracking lewd jests at the expense of each prisoner as he entered. The
place was in a litter. A lamp had been smashed, and there was a puddle
of wine on the floor from a bottle that had been knocked over. On a
bench against the wall were ranged a number of prisoners, others lay
huddled on the floor, and all of them were pinioned.

Two or three of the Marats lurched up to Leroy, and ran their hands
over him, turning out his pockets, and cursing him foully for their
emptiness. He saw the same office performed upon others, and saw them
stripped of money, pocket-books, watches, rings, buckles, and whatever
else of value they happened to possess. One man, a priest, was even
deprived of his shoes by a ruffian who was in want of foot-gear.

As they were pinioning his wrists, Leroy looked up. He confesses that he
was scared.

"What is this for?" he asked. "Does it mean death?"

With an oath he was bidden to ask no questions.

"If I die," he assured them, "you will be killing a good republican."

A tall man with an inflamed countenance and fierce, black eyes, that
were somewhat vitreous, now leered down upon him.

"You babbling fool! It's not your life, it's your property we want."

This was Grandmaison, the fencing-master, who once had been a gentleman.
He had been supping with Carrier, and he had only just arrived at Le
Bouffay, accompanied by Goullin. He found the work be