her brows.

She sighed a short, sharp sigh, and cast a rapid upward glance at her
husband.

He was looking down at her, smiling good-naturedly, a trifle
sarcastically perhaps, and the frown on her face deepened.

"Percy," she said abruptly.

"Yes, m'dear."

"These anxieties are terrible to bear. You have been twice over to
France within the last month, dealing with your life as lightly as if it
did not now belong to me. When will you give up these mad
adventures, and leave others to fight their own battles and to save
their own lives as best they may?"

She had spoken with increased vehemence, although her voice was
scarce raised above a whisper. Even in her sudden, passionate anger
she was on her guard not to betray his secret. He did not reply
immediately, but seemed to be studying the beautiful face on which
heartbroken anxiety was now distinctly imprinted.

Then he turned and looked at the solitary booth in the distance,
across the frontal of which a large placard had been recently affixed,
bearing the words: "Come and see the true representation of the
guillotine!"

In front of the booth a man dressed in ragged breeches, with Phrygian