were heaped upon me, and I ran the closest possible chance of being put to death on the spot.  It may naturally be supposed that I made all kinds of protestations to escape being piked or pistoled.  But they had no time to wait for apologies.  The cry of “Death to the traitor!” was followed by the brandishing of half a dozen knives in the circle round me.  At that moment, when I must have fallen helplessly, a figure stepped forward, and opening the slide of his dark lantern directly on his own face, whispered the word Mordecai.  I recognised, I shall not say with what feelings, the police agent who had formerly conveyed me out of the city.  He was dressed, like the majority of the crowd, in the republican costume; and certainly there never was a more extraordinary costume.  He wore a red cap, like the cap of the butchers of the Faubourgs; an enormous beard covered his breast, a short Spanish mantle hung from his shoulders, a short leathern doublet, with a belt like an armoury, stuck with knives and pistols, a sabre, and huge trousers striped with red, in imitation of streams of gore, completed the patriot uniform.  Some wore broad bands of linen round their waists, inscribed, “2d, 3d and 4th September,”—­the days of massacre.  These were its heros.  I was in the midst of the elite of murder.

“Citizens,” exclaimed the Jew in a voice of thunder, driving back the foremost, “hold your hands up; are you about to destroy a friend of freedom?  Your knives have drunk the blood of aristocrats; but they are the defence of liberty.  This citizen, against whom they are now unsheathed, is one of ourselves.  He has returned from the frontier, to join the brave men of Paris, in their march to the downfall of tyrants.  But out friends await us in the glorious club of the Jacobins.  This is the hour of victory.  Advance, regenerated sons of freedom!  Forward, Frenchmen!”

His speech had the effect.  The rapid executors of public vengeance fell back; and the Jew, whispering to me, “You must follow us, or be killed,”—­I chose the easier alternative at once, and stepped forward like a good citizen.  As my protector pushed the crowd before him, in which he seemed to be a leader, he said to me from time to time, “Show no resistance.  A word from you would be the signal for your death—­we are going to the hall of the Jacobins.  This is a great night among them, and the heads of the party will either be ruined to-night, or by morning will be masters of every thing.  I pledge myself, if not for your safety, at least for doing all that I can to save you.”  I remained silent, as I was ordered; and we hurried on, until there was a halt in front of a huge old building.  “The hall of the Jacobins,” whispered the Jew, and again cautioned me against saying or doing any thing in the shape of reluctance.