fell under the sabers and the pikes.  There was no mercy, only red death and horror.  Rain had fallen in Paris since then, yet surely there must still be blood in the gutters of this square.  The driver could not tell where he had been that night, not here certainly, but wherever it was he was minding his own business.  He had enough to do to live from day to day, and had no use for a long memory.  He had carried people, men and women, from one prison to another before this, and took no special interest in this job.  The revolution mattered little to him if he could get sufficient for his wants.  He had a room high up in the Faubourg St. Antoine, with a wife and child in it, and cared little what heads fell daily in the Place de la Revolution.  He woke from his reverie at the sound of footsteps.  A woman was helped into the coach quickly, a man following her and closing the door sharply behind him.  A second man climbed to the box beside the driver.

“To the Conciergerie,” he said.

The woman in the coach did not speak, but leaned back in the corner.  The man was also silent until they had driven away from the square.

“Listen to me, mademoiselle,” he said presently.  “We are driving in the direction of the Conciergerie, but the way will be altered in a few minutes.  My comrade will arrange that.  Keep your cloak well round you and do not speak.  You and I will have to walk presently to a safe retreat already prepared.  You must do exactly as you are told or we may fail.  Your escape may be discovered at any moment.”

The woman did not answer.  She had no idea who her companion was, had perhaps a doubt in her mind concerning him, but she determined to obey; indeed, what else could she do?

The man beside the driver was silent, and sat in a somewhat bent attitude as though he were desirous of attracting no attention, yet his eyes were keen as the coach went forward at a jogging pace, and if any passer-by seemed to show any interest in the conveyance he was quick to note the fact.

“Take the next turning to the left,” he said suddenly.

“That is not the way,” returned the driver.

“It’s my way.  We might fall in with a crowd.”

“But—­”

“To the left,” said the man.  “I will direct you.”

The coach turned into the street indicated, and afterward round this corner and that at the bidding of the man on the box until the driver was utterly confused.

“I’m lost, citizen,” he said; “and what’s more I believe you are, too.”

“You’ll see directly.  Sharp round to the right here.”

The driver turned.

“Why, it’s as I said, you’ve lost yourself.  This is a blind alley.”

Indeed it was, a narrow lane between high walls, a place where refuse collected and was allowed to remain undisturbed, a place upon which looked no prying window and which echoed to no footfall.

The driver had turned to jeer at his companion when he found himself seized in a grip there was no fighting against.  He tried to call out, but succeeded in giving only a whispered respiration, and then a heavy blow robbed him of his senses.