The nobles were the Marquis de St. Evremonde and his brother; and the Marquis was the father of Charles Darnay.  A terrible sound arose in the court when the reading was done.  The voting of the jury was unanimous, and at every vote there was a roar.  Death in twenty-four hours!

That night Carton again came to Mr. Lorry.  Between the two men, as they spoke, a figure on a chair rocked itself to and fro, moaning.  It was Dr. Manette.

“He and Lucie and her child must leave Paris to-morrow,” said Carton.  “They are in danger of being denounced.  It is a capital crime to mourn for, or sympathise with, a victim of the guillotine.  Be ready to start at two o’clock to-morrow afternoon.  See them into their seats; take your own seat.  The moment I come to you, take me in, and drive away.

“It shall be done.”

Carton turned to the couch where Lucie lay unconscious, prostrated with utter grief.

He bent down, touched her face with his lips, and murmured some words.  Little Lucie told them afterwards that she heard him say, “A life you love.”

VI.—­The Guillotine

In the black prison of the Conciergerie, the doomed of the day awaited their fate.  Fifty-two persons were to roll that afternoon on the life-tide of the city to the boundless, everlasting sea.

The hours went on as Darnay walked to and fro in his cell, and the clocks struck the numbers he would never hear again.  The final hour, he knew, was three, and he expected to be summoned at two.  The clocks struck one.  “There is but another now,” he thought.

He heard footsteps.  The door was opened, and there stood before him, quiet, intent, and smiling, Sydney Carton.

“Darnay,” he said, “I bring you a request from your wife.”

“What is it?”

“There is no time—­you must comply.  Take off your boots and coat, and put on mine.”

“Carton, there is no escaping from this place.  It is madness.”

“Do I ask you to escape?” said Carton, forcing the changes upon him.

“Now sit at the table and write what I dictate.”

“To whom do I address it?”

“To no one.”

“If you remember,” said Carton, dictating, “the words that passed between us long ago, you will comprehend this when you see it.  I am thankful that the time has come when I can prove them.”  Carton’s hand was withdrawn from his breast, and slowly and softly moved down the writer’s face.  For a few seconds Darnay struggled faintly, Carton’s hand held firmly at his nostrils; then he fell senseless to the ground.

Carton called quietly to the turnkey, who looked in and went again as Carton was putting the paper in Darnay’s breast.  He came back with two men.  They raised the unconscious figure and carried it away.

The door closed, and Carton was left alone.  Straining his powers of listening to the utmost, he listened for any sound that might denote suspicion or alarm.  There was none.  Presently his door opened, and a gaoler looked in, merely saying:  “Follow me,” whereupon Carton followed him into a dark room.  As he stood by the wall in a dim corner, a young woman, with a slight, girlish figure, came to speak to him.