“It’s a long road and few reach the end of it,” Seth remarked, “but with a sword to hand I find my courage rising.”

“Let me touch your face with a little black from the stove,” said Mercier.  “You are a little too pale, Monsieur Barrington.”

“It is no wonder.  It seems an age since I felt the wind on my cheeks.”

“That is better,” said Mercier, as with some skill he tinted Barrington’s face and then treated Seth in the same fashion.  “Now listen.  You, Monsieur Barrington, are Citizen Roche, your man here is Citizen Pinot.  You are both officers of the Convention under the leadership of Citizen Mercier, a trusted servant of the Convention.  Remember these names, Roche, Pinot;—­think of no others.  I have papers with me in which you are so named.  Leave the speaking to me.  You are glum fellows lusting only for the work you have been given to do.”

“But where do we go?” asked Barrington.

“You must trust me, monsieur.  I have my instructions from Citizen Latour.  It may be that I do not know the whole of his purpose.  May I trust you to follow my instructions to the letter? for truly, if you presently ask questions and show curiosity, my head is as good as in Madame Guillotine’s basket.”

“You may trust me,” Barrington answered.

“Then we may go at once.  Good night, Citizen Dubois.”

“Good night.”

Through a doorway they passed into a yard shut in by the backs of houses, from which, high up, dim lights glimmered.  Mercier led the way, bidding them keep close to him, and presently turned into a shed—­a stable.  Three horses were there ready saddled.

“Mount, Pinot, mount, Roche.  We ride toward the barrier and journey to Versailles.  We have urgent business that way.”

Barrington asked no question as he mounted.  Mercier led the way out of this yard, into a narrow, cobbled street, then into a wider street.  There were not many people abroad in this direction, and no one took particular notice of them.  They crossed the Seine, and it was evident that Mercier chose his way carefully, avoiding certain streets for good reasons, probably.  They rode in silence.  Even when they approached the barrier Mercier gave no word of warning.

They were challenged and stopped, all three reining in their horses on the instant.

“Business of the Convention at Versailles,” said Mercier.

“More heads, citizen?”

“I judge so.”

“You are Citizen Mercier?” said the guard, holding up his lantern to look at him.

“Yes.  This is Citizen Roche; this, Citizen Pinot.”

The man raised his lantern and looked into each face in turn.

“Devilish poor traveling companions,” whispered Mercier, leaning from his saddle toward the guard; “lustful fellows who get no fun out of their lusts, as merry as death, and as silent.”

The guard laughed and raised his lamp to look into Barrington’s face again.