Marat having commended him for his zeal took final leave of him. Just as
the demagogue's slouchy, grimy figure was disappearing down a side
street there was the loud clatter of hoofs from that same direction, and
the next moment a detachment of the mounted Town Guard, headed by an
officer in uniform, galloped down the ill-paved street.

Even before the troopers had drawn rein the officer had hailed Bibot.

"Citizen," he shouted, and his voice was breathless, for he had
evidently ridden hard and fast, "this message to you from the citizen
Chief Commissary of the Section. Six men are wanted by the Committee of
Public Safety. They are disguised as carriers in the employ of a market
gardener, and have passports for Barency! ... The passports are stolen:
the men are traitors--escaped aristocrats--and their spokesman is that
d--d Englishman, the Scarlet Pimpernel."

Bibot tried to speak; he tugged at the collar of his ragged shirt; an
awful curse escaped him.

"Ten thousand devils!" he roared.

"On no account allow these people to go through," continued the officer.
"Keep their passports. Detain them!... Understand?"

Bibot was still gasping for breath even whilst the officer, ordering a
quick "Turn!" reeled his horse round, ready to gallop away as far as he
had come.

"I am for the St. Denis Gate--Grosjean is on guard there!" he shouted.
"Same orders all round the city. No one to leave the gates!...