He swore partly to keep his own courage at the proper pitch, for the dismal corridors of the Abbaye were depressing to-night.  Approaching footsteps startled Mathon, and the sudden salutation of a comrade turned him pale.  The night was oppressive, yet he found it cold enough to make him shiver.

Presently there came heavy footsteps, and two of those dreaded officers of the Convention, men whose hours were occupied in spreading terror and in feeding the guillotine, stood before him.

“Jailer Mathon?”

“Yes.”

“You have in your charge an emigre, Jeanne St. Clair.  She is to be removed forthwith to the Conciergerie.  There is the order.”

Mathon took up a lantern and by the dim light read the paper handed to him.  It was all in order, the full name of the emigre duly inserted, the genuine signature of the governor of the prison at the foot of the document.  The jailer looked from the paper into the face of the man who had handed it to him.

“Do they set over prisoners fools who cannot read?” asked the man.

“No; the paper is in order,” Mathon answered.

“Obey it then.  Fetch out the emigre.”

Mathon folded up the paper and placed it in his pocket.

“It is down this passage,” and his keys jingled.  His fingers trembled a little as the men followed him.  A few yards from the door the men halted.

“Bring her quickly.  We have other work to do to-night more important than this.”

Mathon unlocked the door and entered the room.

“Jeanne St. Clair, your turn has come.”

The woman moved slowly.

“Quickly,” said Mathon.  “Your head’s still in its place.  Wrap the hood of your cloak well round it.  There’s no need to feel cold before the time.  Don’t speak,” he added in a whisper.

They went out together, Mathon locking the door again.

“This is the prisoner.”

The officers without a word placed themselves on either side of her, and they went quickly along the corridor leaving the jailer alone, one hand holding his keys, the other pressed to his pocket to make sure that the order he had obeyed still rested there.

A berlin stood in the little square before the prison, the driver half asleep.  He had no imagination, this driver, and this square was to him as any other in Paris.  Yet on another night, not long since, how different it had been!  Then a mob filled it, filled it to overflowing, a mob mad with lust of blood and murder, armed with sabers, pikes and hatchets, any weapon that came to hand.  Within the prison sat a sudden jury, a mockery of Justice; without stood Fate.  A brief questioning, the veriest caricature of a trial, and prisoners were escorted to the doors, but no farther.  The rest of the journey they must go alone.  A lane opened before them, all must traverse it, old and young, man or woman.  It was a short journey, and amid frenzied shrieks they