"Rebellion is stirring there, Citizen Marat."

"Rebellion, ha!" It was a sound between a laugh and a croak.
"Tell me what deputies are sheltered in Caen. Come, child, their
names." He took up and dipped his quill, and drew a sheet of
paper towards him.

She approached still nearer; she came to stand close beside him,
erect and calm. She recited the names of her friends, the
Girondins, whilst hunched there in his bath his pen scratched
briskly.

"So many for the guillotine," he snarled, when it was done.

But whilst he was writing, she had drawn the knife from her
fichu, and as he uttered those words of doom to others his own
doom descended upon him in a lightning stroke. Straight driven by
that strong young arm, the long, stout blade was buried to its
black hilt in his breast.

He looked at her with eyes in which there was a faint surprise as
he sank back. Then he raised his voice for the last time.

"Help, chere amie! Help!" he cried, and was for ever silent.

The hand still grasping the pen trailed on the ground beside the
bath at the end of his long, emaciated arm. His body sank
sideways in the same direction, the head lolling nervelessly upon
his right shoulder, whilst from the great rent in his breast the
blood gushed forth, embruing the water of his bath, trickling to