Juliette and Déroulède both vaguely wondered whither they were being led; to some other prison mayhap, away from the fury of the populace. They were conscious of a sense of satisfaction at thought of being freed from that pack of raging wild beasts. Beyond that they cared nothing. Both felt already the shadow of death hovering over them. The supreme moment of their lives had come, and had found them side by side. What neither fear nor remorse, sorrow nor joy, could do, that the great and mighty Shadow accomplished in a trice. Juliette, looking death bravely in the face, held out her hand, and sought that of the man she loved. There was not one word spoken between them, not even a murmur. Déroulède, with the unerring instinct of his own unselfish passion, understood all that the tiny hand wished to convey to him. In a moment everything was forgotten save the joy of this touch. Death, or the fear of death, had ceased to exist. Life was beautiful, and in the soul of these two human creatures there was perfect peace, almost perfect happiness. With one grasp of the hand they had sought and found one another's soul. What mattered the yelling crowd, the noise and tumult of this sordid world? They had found one another, and, hand-in-hand, shoulder-to-shoulder, they had gone off wandering into the land of dreams, where dwelt neither doubt nor treachery, where there was nothing to forgive. He no longer said: "She does not love me--would she have betrayed me else?" He felt the clinging, trustful touch of her hand, and knew that, with all her faults, her great sin and her lasting sorrow, her woman's heart, Heaven's most priceless treasure, was indeed truly his. And she knew that he had forgiven--nay, that he had naught to forgive --for Love is sweet and tender, and judges not. Love is Love--whole, trustful, passionate. Love is perfect understanding and perfect peace. And so they followed their escort whithersoever it chose to lead them. Their eyes wandered aimlessly over the mist-laden landscape of this portion of deserted Paris. They had turned away from the river now, and were following the Rue des Arts. Close by on the right was the dismal little hostelry, "La Cruche Cassée," where Sir Percy Blakeney lived. Déroulède, as they neared the place, caught himself vaguely wondering what had become of his English friend. But it would take more than the ingenuity of the Scarlet Pimpernel to get two noted prisoners out of Paris to-day. Even if ... "Halt!" The word of command rang out clearly and distinctly through the rain-soaked atmosphere. Déroulède threw up his head and listened. Something strange and unaccountable in that same word of command had struck his sensitive ear. Yet the party had halted, and there was a click as of bayonets or muskets levelled ready to fire. All had happened in less than a few seconds. The next moment there was a loud cry: "_A moi,_ Déroulède! 'tis the Scarlet Pimpernel!"