Already the heavy gates had been swung open, and the officer’s voice once more rang out clear through a perfect thunder-clap of fast galloping hoofs: 

“Ventre a terre!  Remember!—­ten thousand francs to him who first sights the Scarlet Pimpernel!”

The thunder-clap died away in the distance, the dust of four score hoofs was merged in the fog and in the darkness; the voice of the captain was raised again through the mist-laden air.  One shout...a shout of triumph...then silence once again.

Bibot had fainted on the heap of debris.

His comrades brought him wine to drink.  He gradually revived.  Hope came back to his heart; his nerves soon steadied themselves as the heavy beverage filtrated through into his blood.

“Bah!” he ejaculated as he pulled himself together, “the troopers were well-mounted...the officer was enthusiastic; those carriers could not have walked very far.  And, in any case, I am free from blame.  Citoyen Marat himself was here and let them pass!”

A shudder of superstitious terror ran through him as he recollected the whole scene:  for surely he knew all the faces of the six men who had gone through the gate.  The devil indeed must have given the mysterious Englishman power to transmute himself and his gang wholly into the bodies of other people.

More than an hour went by.  Bibot was quite himself again, bullying, commanding, detaining everybody now.

At that time there appeared to be a slight altercation going on, on the farther side of the gate.  Bibot thought it his duty to go and see what the noise was about.  Someone wanting to get into Paris instead of out of it at this hour of the night was a strange occurrence.

Bibot heard his name spoken by a raucous voice.  Accompanied by two of his men he crossed the wide gates in order to see what was happening.  One of the men held a lanthorn, which he was swinging high above his head.  Bibot saw standing there before him, arguing with the guard by the gate, the bibulous spokesman of the band of carriers.

He was explaining to the sentry that he had a message to deliver to the citizen commanding at the Porte Montmartre.

“It is a note,” he said, “which an officer of the mounted guard gave me.  He and twenty troopers were galloping down the great North Road not far from Barency.  When they overtook the six of us they drew rein, and the officer gave me this note for citizen Bibot and fifty francs if I would deliver it tonight.”

“Give me the note!” said Bibot calmly.

But his hand shook as he took the paper; his face was livid with fear and rage.

The paper had no writing on it, only the outline of a small scarlet flower done in red—­the device of the cursed Englishman, the Scarlet Pimpernel.

“Which way did the officer and the twenty troopers go,” he stammered, “after they gave you this note?”

“On the way to Calais,” replied the other, “but they had magnificent horses, and didn’t spare them either.  They are a league and more away by now!”