extinguished the feeble lights. The voice of the orator was still.
Silence and darkness reigned over that insignificant little street on
the southern side of the Seine. Then came the clatter of cavalry--the
rattle of horses' feet, and the ominous clank of empty scabbards against
spur and buckle. A word of command, and a scrambling halt. Then silence
again, broken only by the shuffling of feet (not too well clad) in the
darkness between the barricades.

The Citizen Morot leant recklessly out of the window, peering into
the gloom. He forgot to make use of the delicately scented pocket-
handkerchief now, and the drops of perspiration trickled slowly down
his face.

The soldiers shuffled in their saddles. Some of the spirited little
Arabs pawed the pavement. One of them squealed angrily, and there was a
slight commotion somewhere in the rear ranks--an equine difference of
opinion. The officers had come forward to the barricade and were
consulting together. The question was--what was there behind that
barricade? It might be nothing--it might be everything. In Paris one can
never tell. At last one of them determined to see for himself. He
scrambled up, putting his foot through the window of an omnibus in
passing. Against the dim light of the street-lamp beyond, his slight,
straight figure stood out in bold relief. It was a splendid mark for a
man with chalked sights to his rifle.

"Ah!" muttered the Citizen, "you are all right this time--master, the
young officer. They are only barking. Next time perhaps it will be quite
another history."

The officer turned and disappeared. After the lapse of a few moments a