Understand?"

His troopers fell in. The next moment he would be gone, and those cursed
aristocrats well in safety's way.

"Citizen Captain!"

The hoarse shout at last contrived to escape Bibot's parched throat. As
if involuntarily, the officer drew rein once more.

"What is it? Quick!--I've no time. That confounded Englishman may be at
the St. Denis Gate even now!"

"Citizen Captain," gasped Bibot, his breath coming and going like that
of a man fighting for his life. "Here! ...at this gate!...not half an
hour ago...six men...carriers...market gardeners...I seemed to know
their faces...."

"Yes! yes! market gardener's carriers," exclaimed the officer gleefully,
"aristocrats all of them...and that d--d Scarlet Pimpernel. You've got
them? You've detained them? ... Where are they? ... Speak, man, in the name
of hell! ..." "Gone!" gasped Bibot. His legs would no longer bear him. He
fell backwards on to a heap of street debris and refuse, from which
lowly vantage ground he contrived to give away the whole miserable tale.

"Gone! half an hour ago. Their passports were in order!...I seemed to
know their faces! Citizen Marat was here.... He, too--"

In a moment the officer had once more swung his horse round, so that the
animal reared, with wild forefeet pawing the air, with champing of bit,