pause the new man called Ratcliffe said with gloomy
decision--

"Of course the President isn't with them. I wish to Gemini he were. Much
more likely the President is riding in triumph through Paris, or sitting
on the ruins of St. Paul's Cathedral."

"This is absurd!" said Syme. "Something may have happened in our
absence; but he cannot have carried the world with a rush like that. It
is quite true," he added, frowning dubiously at the distant fields that
lay towards the little station, "it is certainly true that there seems
to be a crowd coming this way; but they are not all the army that you
make out."

"Oh, they," said the new detective contemptuously; "no they are not a
very valuable force. But let me tell you frankly that they are precisely
calculated to our value--we are not much, my boy, in Sunday's universe.
He has got hold of all the cables and telegraphs himself. But to kill
the Supreme Council he regards as a trivial matter, like a post card; it
may be left to his private secretary," and he spat on the grass.

Then he turned to the others and said somewhat austerely--

"There is a great deal to be said for death; but if anyone has any
preference for the other alternative, I strongly advise him to walk
after me."

With these words, he turned his broad back and strode with silent energy
towards the wood. The others gave one glance over their shoulders, and
saw that the dark cloud of men had detached itself from the station
and was moving with a mysterious discipline across the plain. They saw
already, even with the naked eye, black blots on the foremost faces,
which marked the masks they wore. They turned and followed their leader,
who had already struck the wood, and disappeared among the twinkling
trees.

The sun on the grass was dry and hot. So in plunging into the wood they
had a cool shock of shadow, as of divers who plunge into a dim pool. The
inside of the wood was full of shattered sunlight and shaken shadows.
They made a sort of shuddering veil, almost recalling the dizziness of a
cinematograph. Even the solid figures walking with him Syme could hardly
see for the patterns of sun and shade that danced upon them. Now a man's
head was lit as with a light of Rembrandt, leaving all else obliterated;
now again he had strong and staring white hands with the face of a
negro. The ex-Marquis had pulled the old straw hat over his eyes, and
the black shade of the brim cut his face so squarely in two that i