he himself not had many a proof of how little the forging of identity
papers or of passports troubled the members of that accursed League? Had
he not seen the Scarlet Pimpernel, that exquisite Sir Percy Blakeney,
under disguises that were so grimy and so loathsome that they would have
repelled the most abject, suborned spy?

Indeed, all that was wanted now was the assurance that Hebert--who
himself had a deadly and personal grudge against the Scarlet Pimpernel--
would not allow him for one moment out of his sight.

Fortunately as to this, there was no fear. One hint to Hebert and the
man was as keen, as determined, as Chauvelin himself.

"Set your mind at rest, citizen," he said with a rough oath. "I guessed
how matters stood the moment you gave me the order. I knew you would not
take all that trouble for a real Paul Mole. But have no fear! That
accursed Englishman has not been one second out of my sight, from the
moment I arrested him in the late citizen Marat's lodgings, and by
Satan! he shall not be either, until I have seen his impudent head fall
under the guillotine."

He himself, he added, had seen to the arrangements for the disposal of
the prisoner in the Abbaye: an inner cell, partially partitioned off in
one of the guard-rooms, with no egress of its own, and only a tiny
grated air-hole high up in the wall, which gave on an outside corridor,
and through which not even a cat could manage to slip. Oh! the prisoner
was well guarded! The citizen Representative need, of a truth, have no
fear! Three or four men--of the best and most trustworthy--had not left
the guard-room since the morning. He himself (Hebert) had kept the
accursed Englishman in sight all night, had personally conveyed him to