Scarlet Pimpernel.’” 

 A howl of execration greeted this tale. Citoyen Grospierre had paid for his blunder on the guillotine, but what a fool! oh! what a fool! 

 Bibot was laughing so much at his own tale that it was some time before he could continue. 

 “‘After them, my men,’ shouts the captain,” he said, after a while, “‘remember the reward; after them, they cannot have gone far!’ And with that he rushes through the gate, followed by his dozen soldiers.” 

 “But it was too late!” shouted the crowd, excitedly. 

 “They never got them!” 

 “Curse that Grospierre for his folly!” 

 “He deserved his fate!” 

 “Fancy not examining those casks properly!” 

 But these sallies seemed to amuse Citoyen Bibot exceedingly; he laughed until his sides ached, and the tears streamed down his cheeks. 

 “Nay, nay!” he said at last, “those aristos weren’t in the cart; the driver was not the Scarlet Pimpernel!” 

 “What?” 

 “No! The captain of the guard was that damned Englishman in disguise, and every one of his soldiers aristos!” 

 The crowd this time said nothing: the story certainly savoured of the supernatural, and though the Republic had abolished God, it had not quite succeeded in killing the fear of the supernatural in the hearts of the people. Truly that Englishman must be the devil himself. 

 The sun was sinking low down in the west. Bibot prepared himself to close the gates. 

 “En avant the carts,” he said. 

 Some dozen covered carts were drawn up in a row, ready to leave town, in order to fetch the produce from the country close by, for market the next morning. They were mostly well known to Bibot, as they went through his gate twice every day on their way to and from the town. He spoke to one or two of 

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