nation--with all that deadly hatred which a divergence of political aims
will arouse in times of acute crises. He hated the English government,
Pitt and Burke and even Fox, the happy-go-lucky apologist of the young
Revolution. But, above all, he hated that League of English spies--as he
was pleased to call them--whose courage, resourcefulness, as well as
reckless daring, had more than once baffled his own hideous schemes of
murder, of pillage, and of rape.

Thank Beelzebub and his horde of evil spirits, citizen Chauvelin had
been clear-sighted enough to detect that elusive Pimpernel under the
disguise of Paul Mole.

"You have deserved well of your country," said Tinville with lusty
fervour, and gave Chauvelin a vigorous slap on the shoulder. "But for
you I should have allowed that abominable spy to slip through our
fingers."

"I have succeeded in convincing you, citizen?" Chauvelin retorted dryly.

"Absolutely!" rejoined the other. "You may now leave the matter to me.
And 'twill be friend Mole who will be surprised to-morrow," he added
with a harsh guffaw, "when he finds himself face to face with me, before
a Court of Justice."

He was all eagerness, of course. Such a triumph for him! The indictment
of the notorious Scarlet Pimpernel on a charge of espionage would be the
crowning glory of his career! Let other men look to their laurels! Those
who brought that dangerous enemy of revolution to the guillotine would
for ever be proclaimed as the saviours of France.