what a man to be afraid of sickness.” 

 “Morbleu! the plague!” 

 Everyone was awe-struck and silent, filled with horror for the loathsome malady, the one thing which still had the power to arouse terror and disgust in these savage, brutalised creatures. 

 “Get out with you and with your plague-stricken brood!” shouted Bibot, hoarsely. 

 And with another rough laugh and coarse jest, the old hag whipped up her lean nag and drove her cart out of the gate. 

 This incident had spoilt the afternoon. The people were terrified of these two horrible curses, the two maladies which nothing could cure, and which were the precursors of an awful and lonely death. They hung about the barricades, silent and sullen for a while, eyeing one another suspiciously, avoiding each other as if by instinct, lest the plague lurked already in their midst. Presently, as in the case of Grospierre, a captain of the guard appeared suddenly. But he was known to Bibot, and there was no fear of his turning out to be a sly Englishman in disguise. 

 “A cart, . . .” he shouted breathlessly, even before he had reached the gates. 

 “What cart?” asked Bibot, roughly. 

 “Driven by an old hag. . . . A covered cart . . .” 

 “There were a dozen . . .” 

 “An old hag who said her son had the plague?” 

 “Yes . . .” 

 “You have not let them go?” 

 “Morbleu!” said Bibot, whose purple cheeks had suddenly become white with fear. 

 “The cart contained the ci-devant Comtesse de Tournay and her two children, all of them traitors and condemned to death.” 

 “And their driver?” muttered Bibot, as a superstitious shudder ran down his spine. 

 “Sacré tonnerre,” said the captain, “but it is feared that it was that accursed Englishman himself—the Scarlet Pimpernel.” 

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