“Thirsty July weather, this—­eh, citizen?” said Lomaque, leaving the head jailer, and patting the hunchback in the friendliest manner on the shoulder.  “Why, how you have got your batch huddled up together this morning!  Shall I help you to shove them into marching order?  My time is quite at your disposal.  This is a holiday morning with me!”

“Ha, ha, ha! what a jolly dog he is on his holiday morning!” exclaimed the head jailer, as Lomaque—­apparently taking leave of his natural character altogether in the exhilaration of an hour’s unexpected leisure—­began pushing and pulling the prisoners into rank, with humorous mock apologies, at which not the officials only, but many of the victims themselves—­reckless victims of a reckless tyranny—­laughed heartily.  Persevering to the last in his practical jest, Lomaque contrived to get close to Trudaine for a minute, and to give him one significant look before he seized him by the shoulders, like the rest.  “Now, then, rear-guard,” cried Lomaque, pushing Trudaine on, “close the line of march, and mind you keep step with your young woman there.  Pluck up your spirits, citoyenne! one gets used to everything in this world, even to the guillotine!”

While he was speaking and pushing at the same time, Trudaine felt a piece of paper slip quickly between his neck and his cravat.  “Courage!” he whispered, pressing his sister’s hand, as he saw her shuddering under the assumed brutality of Lomaque’s joke.

Surrounded by the guard of “Patriots,” the procession of prisoners moved slowly into the outer courtyard, on its way to the revolutionary tribunal, the humpbacked jailer bringing up the rear.  Lomaque was about to follow at some little distance, but the head jailer hospitably expostulated.  “What a hurry you’re in!” said he.  “Now that incorrigible drinker, my second in command, has gone off with his batch, I don’t mind asking you to step in and have a drop of wine.”

“Thank you,” answered Lomaque; “but I have rather a fancy for hearing the trial this morning.  Suppose I come back afterward?  What time do you go to your Section?  At two o’clock, eh?  Good!  I shall try if I can’t get here soon after one.”  With these words he nodded and went out.  The brilliant sunlight in the courtyard made him wink faster than ever.  Had any of his old enemies been with him, they would have whispered within themselves, “If you mean to come back at all, Citizen Lomaque, it will not be soon after one!”

On his way through the streets, the chief agent met one or two police office friends, who delayed his progress; so that when he arrived at the revolutionary tribunal the trials of the day were just about to begin.