Even before the troopers had drawn rein the officer had hailed Bibot.

“Citizen,” he shouted, and his voice was breathless, for he had evidently ridden hard and fast, “this message to you from the citizen Chief Commissary of the Section.  Six men are wanted by the Committee of Public Safety.  They are disguised as carriers in the employ of a market gardener, and have passports for Barency! ...  The passports are stolen:  the men are traitors—­escaped aristocrats—­and their spokesman is that d—­d Englishman, the Scarlet Pimpernel.”

Bibot tried to speak; he tugged at the collar of his ragged shirt; an awful curse escaped him.

“Ten thousand devils!” he roared.

“On no account allow these people to go through,” continued the officer.  “Keep their passports.  Detain them!...  Understand?”

Bibot was still gasping for breath even whilst the officer, ordering a quick “Turn!” reeled his horse round, ready to gallop away as far as he had come.

“I am for the St. Denis Gate—­Grosjean is on guard there!” he shouted.  “Same orders all round the city.  No one to leave the gates!...  Understand?”

His troopers fell in.  The next moment he would be gone, and those cursed aristocrats well in safety’s way.

“Citizen Captain!”

The hoarse shout at last contrived to escape Bibot’s parched throat.  As if involuntarily, the officer drew rein once more.

“What is it?  Quick!—­I’ve no time.  That confounded Englishman may be at the St. Denis Gate even now!”

“Citizen Captain,” gasped Bibot, his breath coming and going like that of a man fighting for his life.  “Here! ...at this gate!...not half an hour ago...six men...carriers...market gardeners...I seemed to know their faces....”

“Yes! yes! market gardener’s carriers,” exclaimed the officer gleefully, “aristocrats all of them...and that d—­d Scarlet Pimpernel.  You’ve got them?  You’ve detained them? ...  Where are they? ...  Speak, man, in the name of hell! ...”  “Gone!” gasped Bibot.  His legs would no longer bear him.  He fell backwards on to a heap of street debris and refuse, from which lowly vantage ground he contrived to give away the whole miserable tale.

“Gone! half an hour ago.  Their passports were in order!...I seemed to know their faces!  Citizen Marat was here....  He, too—­”

In a moment the officer had once more swung his horse round, so that the animal reared, with wild forefeet pawing the air, with champing of bit, and white foam scattered around.

“A thousand million curses!” he exclaimed.  “Citizen Bibot, your head will pay for this treachery.  Which way did they go?”

A dozen hands were ready to point in the direction where the merry party of carriers had disappeared half an hour ago; a dozen tongues gave rapid, confused explanations.

“Into it, my men!” shouted the officer; “they were on foot!  They can’t have gone far.  Remember the Republic has offered ten thousand francs for the capture of the Scarlet Pimpernel.”