“A narrow escape.  Give me your hand; I will lead you into a place of greater safety.”

Barrington had no idea who his deliverer was, but he thanked him and took his hand.  He was led along evil-smelling passages into which no ray of light penetrated, but which were evidently familiar to his guide.  There were turnings, now to right, now to left, an opening and shutting of doors, and finally entrance into a wider space where the air was comparatively fresh.

“One moment and I will get a light.”

The dim light from the lantern revealed a small chamber, square and built of stone, the work of a past age.  A barred grating high up in the wall let in air, and possibly light in the daytime.  A common chair and table standing in the center, a bowl with a water can beside it in one corner, and a heap of straw in another comprised the furniture.  These things Barrington noticed at once, and then recognized that the man who set the lantern on the table was Jacques Sabatier.

“A prison,” said Barrington.

“A place of refuge, citizen,” was the answer.  “Were you not here, you would be decorating a lantern by this time.”

“We meet in Paris under strange circumstances,” said Barrington.

“Still we do meet.  Did I not say at Tremont that every true patriot must sooner or later meet Jacques Sabatier in Paris, though for that matter I expected it to be in a wine shop and not here, underground.”

“Where are we?”

“In a cell of the old monastery which once stood hard by the Rue Charonne, which has served as a cellar at some time, but now for a long while has been forgotten.  Citizen Latour would have been here with mademoiselle to meet you, but the mob in the neighborhood will keep them away to-night.  You must wait here, monsieur, it may be for some days.”

“Mademoiselle is safe?”

“Quite safe in the care of Deputy Latour.  I had the honor of helping him to bring her out of the Abbaye prison.”

“And what are Citizen Latour’s plans for getting her out of Paris?”

“He is making them, but they change from day to day as the circumstances change.  At the first opportunity he will come to you.”

“I must wait with what patience I can,” said Barrington.

“And remain as quiet as you can,” said Sabatier.  “The crowd will be hunting for you for some time, and a noise might attract them.”

“I shall not court death; I have a good deal to live for,” said Barrington.

“Then, monsieur, I will leave you.  Citizen Latour will be distressed until he knows you are safe.”

Richard Barrington’s patience was destined to be sufficiently tried.  It was a poor, miserable caricature of daylight which found its way through the barred grating, and for three days Sabatier visited him every morning with the same news that the crowds parading the Rue Charonne made it impossible for Latour to come.