nor had not denied them their annual licence.
They had built a high car in one of the entrance yards to the
Marienkirche; and finding that the ancient arch would not allow the
erection to pass out into the street, they had pulled down the pious
handiwork of a bygone generation.

The shouts of these merrymakers could be dimly heard through the double
windows, but Sebastian made no inquiry as to the meaning of the cry.
A sort of lassitude--the result of confinement within doors, of
insufficient food, of waning hope--had come over Desiree. She listened
heedlessly to the sounds in the streets through which the dead were
passing to the Oliva Gate, while the living danced by in their hideous
travesty of rejoicing.

It was dusk when Barlasch came in.

"The streets," he said, "are full of fools, dressed as such."
Receiving no answer, he crossed the room to where Desiree sat, treading
noiselessly, and stood in front of her, trying to see her averted face.
He stooped down and peered at her until she could no longer hide her
tear-stained eyes.

He made a wry face and a little clicking noise with his tongue, such
as the women of his race make when they drop and break some household
utensil. Then he went back towards the bed. Hitherto he had always
observed a certain ceremoniousness of manner in the sick chamber. He
laid this aside this evening, and sat down on a chair that stood near.

Thus they remained in a silence which seemed to increase with the
darkness. At length the stillness became so marked that Barlasch slowly
turned his head towards the bed. The same instinct had come to Desiree
at the same moment.

They both rose and groped their way towards Sebastian. Desiree found the
flint and struck it. The sulphur burnt blue for interminable moments,
and then flared to meet the wick of the candle. Barlasch watched Desiree
as she held the light down to her father's face. Sebastian's waiting was
over. Barlasch had not needed a candle to recognize death.

From Desiree his bright and restless eyes turned slowly towards the dead
man's face--and he stepped back.

"Ah!" he said, with a hoarse cry of surprise, "now I remember. I was
always sure that I had seen his face before. And when I saw it it
was like that--like the face of a dead man. It was on the Place de la
Nation, on a tumbrel--going to the guillotine. He must have escaped, as
many did, by some accident or mistake."

He went slowly to the window, holding his shaggy he