and bloodthirsty tribunal of the Revolution, within the very walls of
Paris itself, and had snatched away condemned victims, almost from the

very foot of the guillotine. With a shudder, she recalled the events
of the last few days, her escape from Paris with her two children, all

three of them hidden beneath the hood of a rickety cart, and lying
amidst a heap of turnips and cabbages, not daring to breathe, whilst

the mob howled, "A la lanterne les aristos!" at the awful West
Barricade.

It had all occurred in such a miraculous way; she and her
husband had understood that they had been placed on the list of

"suspected persons," which meant that their trial and death were but a
matter of days--of hours, perhaps.

Then came the hope of salvation; the mysterious epistle,
signed with the enigmatical scarletdevice; the clear, peremptory

directions; the parting from the Comte de Tournay, which had torn the
poor wife's heart in two; the hope of reunion; the flight with her two

children; the covered cart; that awful hag driving it, who looked like
some horrible evil demon, with the ghastlytrophy on her whip handle!

The Comtesse looked round at the quaint, old-fashioned English
inn, the peace of this land of civil and religious liberty, and she

closed her eyes to shut out the haunting vision of that West
Barricade, and of the mob retreating panic-stricken when the old hag

spoke of the plague.
Every moment under that cart she expected recognition, arrest,

herself and her children tried and condemned, and these young
Englishmen, under the guidance of their brave and mysterious leader,

had risked their lives to save them all, as they had already saved
scores of other innocent people.

And all only for sport? Impossible! Suzanne's eyes as she sought
those of Sir Andrew plainly told him that she thought that HE at any

rate rescued his fellowmen from terrible and unmerited death, through
a higher and nobler motive than his friend would have her believe.

"How many are there in your brave league, Monsieur?" she asked timidly.
"Twenty all told, Mademoiselle," he replied, "one to command,

and nineteen to obey. All of us Englishmen, and all pledged to the
same cause--to obey our leader and to rescue the innocent."

"May God protect you all, Messieurs," said the Comtesse, fervently.
"He had done that so far, Madame."

"It is wonderful to me, wonderful!--That you should all be so
brave, so devoted to your fellowmen--yet you are English!--and in

France treachery is rife--all in the name of liberty and fraternity."
"The women even, in France, have been more bitter against us

aristocrats than the men," said the Vicomte, with a sigh.
"Ah, yes," added the Comtesse, while a look of haughty disdain

and intensebitterness shot through her melancholy eyes, "There was
that woman, Marguerite St. Just for instance. She denounced the

Marquis de St. Cyr and all his family to the awful tribunal of the
Terror."

"Marguerite St. Just?" said Lord Antony, as he shot a quick
and apprehensive glance across at Sir Andrew.

"Marguerite St. Just?--Surely. . ."
"Yes!" replied the Comtesse, "surely you know her. She was a

leading actress of the Comedie Francaise, and she married an
Englishman lately. You must know her--"

"Know her?" said Lord Antony. "Know Lady Blakeney--the most
fashionable woman in London--the wife of the richest man in England?

Of course, we all know Lady Blakeney."
"She was a school-fellow of mine at the convent in Paris,"

interposed Suzanne, "and we came over to England together to learn
your language. I was very fond of Marguerite, and I cannot believe

that she ever did anything so wicked."
"It certainly seems incredible," said Sir Andrew. "You say

that she actually denounced the Marquis de St. Cyr? Why should she
have done such a thing? Surely there must be some mistake--"

"No mistake is possible, Monsieur," rejoined the Comtesse,
coldly. "Marguerite St. Just's brother is a noted republican. There

was some talk of a family feud between him and my cousin, the Marquis
de St. Cyr. The St. Justs' are quite plebeian, and the republican

government employs many spies. I assure you there is no
mistake. . . . You had not heard this story?"

"Faith, Madame, I did hear some vague rumours of it, but in
England no one would credit it. . . . Sir Percy Blakeney, her

husband, is a very wealthy man, of high social position, the intimate
friend of the Prince of Wales. . .and Lady Blakeney leads both fashion

and society in London."
"That may be, Monsieur, and we shall, of course, lead a very

quiet life in England, but I pray god that while I remain in this
beautiful country, I may never meet Marguerite St. Just."

The proverbial wet-blanket seemed to have fallen over the merry little
company gathered round the table. Suzanne looked sad and silent;

Sir Andrew fidgeted uneasily with his fork, whilst the Comtesse,
encased in the plate-armour of her aristocratic prejudices, sat,

rigid and unbending, in her straight-backed chair. As for Lord Antony,
he looked extremelyuncomfortable, and glanced once or twice apprehensively

towards Jellyband, who looked just as uncomfortable as himself.
"At what time do you expect Sir Percy and Lady Blakeney?" he

contrived to whisperunobserved, to mine host.
"Any moment, my lord," whispered Jellyband in reply.

Even as he spoke, a distant clatter was heard of an
approaching coach; louder and louder it grew, one or two shouts became

distinguishable, then the rattle of horses' hoofs on the uneven cobble
stones, and the next moment a stable boy had thrown open the

coffee-room door and rushed in excitedly.
"Sir Percy Blakeney and my lady," he shouted at the top of his

voice, "they're just arriving."
And with more shouting, jingling of harness, and iron hoofs

upon the stones, a magnificent coach, drawn by four superb bays, had
halted outside the porch of "The Fisherman's Rest."

CHAPTER V MARGUERITE
In a moment the pleasant oak-raftered coffee-room of the inn

became the scene of hopelessconfusion and discomfort. At the first
announcement made by the stable boy, Lord Antony, with a fashionable

oath, had jumped up from his seat and was now giving many and confused
directions to poor bewildered Jellyband, who seemed at his wits' end

what to do.
"For goodness' sake, man," admonished his lordship, "try to

keep Lady Blakeney talking outside for a moment while the ladies
withdraw. Zounds!" he added, with another more emphatic oath, "this

is most unfortunate."
"Quick Sally! the candles!" shouted Jellyband, as hopping

about from one leg to another, he ran hither and thither, adding to
the general discomfort of everybody.

The Comtesse, too, had risen to her feet: rigid and erect,
trying to hide her excitement beneath more becoming SANG-FROID, she

repeated mechanically,--
"I will not see her!--I will not see her!"

Outside, the excitementattendant upon the arrival of very
important guests grew apace.

"Good-day, Sir Percy!--Good-day to your ladyship! Your
servant, Sir Percy!"--was heard in one long, continued chorus, with

alternate more feeble tones of--"Remember the poor blind man! of your
charity, lady and gentleman!"

Then suddenly a singularly sweet voice was heard through all
the din.

"Let the poor man be--and give him some supper at my expense."
The voice was low and musical, with a slight sing-song in it,

and a faint SOUPCON of foreign intonation in the pronunciation of
the consonants.

Everyone in the coffee-room heard it and paused instinctively,
listening to it for a moment. Sally was holding the candles by the

opposite door, which led to the bedrooms upstairs, and the Comtesse
was in the act of beating a hasty retreat before that enemy who owned

such a sweet musical voice; Suzanne reluctantly was preparing to
follow her mother, while casting regretful glances towards the door,

where she hoped still to see her dearly-beloved, erstwhile
school-fellow.

Then Jellyband threw open the door, still stupidly and blindly
hoping to avert the catastrophe, which he felt was in the air, and the

same low, musical voice said, with a merry laugh and mock
consternation,--