“Do you hear that?  Do you see the advancing torch-light?” cried Lomaque, pointing exultingly into the street.  “Respect to the national hymn, and to the man who holds in the hollow of his hand the destinies of all France!  Hat off, Citizen Danville!  Robespierre is in the street.  His bodyguard, the Hard-hitters, are lighting him on his way to the Jacobin Club!  Who shall oppose you, did you say?  Your master and mine; the man whose signature is at the bottom of this order—­the man who with a scratch of his pen can send both our heads rolling together into the sack of the guillotine!  Shall I call to him as he passes the house?  Shall I tell him that Superintendent Danville resists me in making an arrest?  Shall I?  Shall I?” And in the immensity of his contempt, Lomaque seemed absolutely to rise in stature, as he thrust the arrest order under Danville’s eyes and pointed to the signature with the head of his stick.

Rose looked round in terror, as Lomaque spoke his last words—­looked round, and saw her husband recoil before the signature on the arrest order, as if the guillotine itself had suddenly arisen before him.  Her brother felt her shrinking back in his arms, and trembled for the preservation of her self-control if the terror and suspense of the arrest lasted any longer.

“Courage, Rose, courage!” he said.  “You have behaved nobly; you must not fail now.  No, no!  Not a word more.  Not a word till I am able to think clearly again, and to decide what is best.  Courage, love; our lives depend on it.  Citizen,” he continued, addressing himself to Lomaque, “proceed with your duty—­we are ready.”

The heavy marching footsteps outside were striking louder and louder on the ground; the chanting voices were every moment swelling in volume; the dark street was flaming again with the brightening torch-light, as Lomaque, under pretext of giving Trudaine his hat, came close to him, and, turning his back toward Danville, whispered:  “I have not forgotten the eve of the wedding and the bench on the river bank.”

Before Trudaine could answer, he had taken Rose’s cloak and hood from one of his assistants, and was helping her on with it.  Danville, still pale and trembling, advanced a step when he saw these preparations for departure, and addressed a word or two to his wife; but he spoke in low tones, and the fast-advancing march of feet and sullen low roar of singing outside drowned his voice.  An oath burst from his lips, and he struck his fist, in impotent fury, on a table near him.

“The seals are set on everything in this room and in the bedroom,” said Magloire, approaching Lomaque, who nodded and signed to him to bring up the other police agents at the door.

“Ready,” cried Magloire, coming forward immediately with his men, and raising his voice to make himself heard.  “Where to?”

Robespierre and his Hard-hitters were passing the house.  The smoke of the torch-light was rolling in at the window; the tramping footsteps struck heavier and heavier on the ground; the low sullen roar of the Marseillaise was swelling to its loudest, as Lomaque referred for a moment to his arrest-order, and then answered: