to the sea, where they might trust to that Providence who appears to help
even the wicked sometimes. As Shorland looked upon the scene he thought
of Alencon Barre's words: "It is always the same with France, always the
same."

The fight grew fiercer, the soldiers pressed nearer. And now one clear
voice was heard above the din, "Forward, forward, my children!" and some
one sprang upon the outer barricade. It was the plotter of the revolt,
the leader, the manager of the "Underground Railway," the beloved of the
convicts--Gabrielle Rouget.

The sunlight glorified her flying hair and vivid dress-vivid with the
blood of the fallen. Her arms, her shoulders, her feet were bare; all
that she could spare from her body had gone to bind the wounds of her
desperate comrades. In her hands she held a carbine. As she stood for
an instant unmoving, the firing, as if by magic, ceased. She raised a
hand. "We will have the guillotine in Paris," she said; "but not the
hell of exile here."

Then Henri Durien, the convict, sprang up beside her; the man for whom
she had made a life's sacrifice--for whom she had come to this! His head
was bandaged and clotted with blood; his eyes shone with the fierceness
of an animal at bay. Close after him crowded the handful of his frenzied
compatriots in crime.

Then a rifle-crack was heard, and Henri Durieu fell at the feet of
Gabrielle. The wave on the barricade quivered, and then Gabrielle's
voice was heard crying, "Avenge him! Free yourselves, my children!
Death is better than prison!"