They bound eastward, in sharp trot; their moral-certainty permeating the Village, from the Townhall outwards, in busy whispers.  Alas!  Captain Dandoins orders his Dragoons to mount; but they, complaining of long fast, demand bread-and-cheese first;—­before which brief repast can be eaten, the whole Village is permeated; not whispering now, but blustering and shrieking!  National Volunteers, in hurried muster, shriek for gunpowder; Dragoons halt between Patriotism and Rule of the Service, between bread and cheese and fixed bayonets:  Dandoins hands secretly his Pocket-book, with its secret despatches, to the rigorous Quartermaster:  the very Ostlers have stable-forks and flails.  The rigorous Quartermaster, half-saddled, cuts out his way with the sword’s edge, amid levelled bayonets, amid Patriot vociferations, adjurations, flail-strokes; and rides frantic; (Declaration de La Gache in Choiseul, p. 134.)—­few or even none following him; the rest, so sweetly constrained consenting to stay there.

And thus the new Berline rolls; and Drouet and Guillaume gallop after it, and Dandoins’s Troopers or Trooper gallops after them; and Sainte-Menehould, with some leagues of the King’s Highway, is in explosion;—­and your Military thunder-chain has gone off in a self-destructive manner; one may fear with the frightfullest issues!

Chapter 2.4.VII.

The Night of Spurs.

This comes of mysterious Escorts, and a new Berline with eleven horses:  ’he that has a secret should not only hide it, but hide that he has it to hide.’  Your first Military Escort has exploded self-destructive; and all Military Escorts, and a suspicious Country will now be up, explosive; comparable not to victorious thunder.  Comparable, say rather, to the first stirring of an Alpine Avalanche; which, once stir it, as here at Sainte-Menehould, will spread,—­all round, and on and on, as far as Stenai; thundering with wild ruin, till Patriot Villagers, Peasantry, Military Escorts, new Berline and Royalty are down,—­jumbling in the Abyss!

The thick shades of Night are falling.  Postillions crack the whip:  the Royal Berline is through Clermont, where Colonel Comte de Damas got a word whispered to it; is safe through, towards Varennes; rushing at the rate of double drink-money:  an Unknown ‘Inconnu on horseback’ shrieks earnestly some hoarse whisper, not audible, into the rushing Carriage-window, and vanishes, left in the night. (Campan, ii. 159.) August Travellers palpitate; nevertheless overwearied Nature sinks every one of them into a kind of sleep.  Alas, and Drouet and Clerk Guillaume spur; taking side-roads, for shortness, for safety; scattering abroad that moral-certainty of theirs; which flies, a bird of the air carrying it!