Sir Percy Blakeney and his little band of followers had found the Pont Neuf and the adjoining streets practically deserted. A few stragglers from the crowd, soaked through with the rain, their enthusiasm damped, and their throats choked with the mist, were sulkily returning to their homes. The desultory group of six _sansculottes_ attracted little or no attention, and Sir Percy boldly challenged every passer-by. "The way to the Rue du Temple, citizen?" he asked once or twice, or: "Have they hung the traitor yet? Can you tell me, citizeness?" A grunt or an oath were the usual replies, but no one took any further notice of the gigantic coal-heaver and his ragged friends. At the corner of one of the cross streets, between the Rue du Temple and the Rue des Archives, Sir Percy Blakeney suddenly turned to his followers: "We are close to the rabble now," he said in a whisper, and speaking in English; "do you all follow the nearest stragglers, and get as soon as possible into the thickest of the crowd. We'll meet again outside the prison--and remember the sea-gull's cry." He did not wait for an answer, and presently disappeared in the mist. Already a few stragglers, hangers-on of the multitude, were gradually coming into view, and the yells could be distinctly heard. The mob had evidently assembled in the great square outside the prison, and was loudly demanding the object of its wrath. The moment for cool-headed action was at hand. The Scarlet Pimpernel had planned the whole thing, but it was for his followers and for those, whom he was endeavouring to rescue from certain death, to help him heart and soul. Déroulède's grasp tightened on Juliette's little hand. "Are you frightened, my beloved?" he whispered. "Not whilst you are near me," she murmured in reply. A few more minutes' walk up the Rue des Archives and they were in the thick of the crowd. Sir Andrew Ffoulkes, Lord Anthony Dewhurst, and Lord Hastings, the three Englishmen, were in front; Déroulède and Juliette immediately behind them. The mob itself now carried them along. A motley throng they were, soaked through with the rain, drunk with their own baffled rage, and with the brandy which they had imbibed. Everyone was shouting; the women louder than the rest; one of them was dragging the length of rope, which might still be useful. "_Ça ira! ça ira! A la lanterne! A la lanterne! les traîtres!_" And Déroulède, holding Juliette by the hand, shouted lustily with them: "_Ça ira!_" Sir Andrew Ffoulkes turned, and laughed. It was rare sport for these young bucks, and they all entered into the spirit of the situation. They all shouted "_A la lanterne!_" egging and encouraging those around them. Déroulède and Juliette felt the intoxication of the adventure. They were drunk with the joy of their reunion, and seized with the wild, mad, passionate desire for freedom and for life ... Life and love!