"The Citoyen Dossonville! I summon all on peril of their lives to discover to me the Citoyen Dossonville!" Out of the mass extended a hand with long, accusing forefinger, and a voice exclaimed: "Over there." The hand was snatched back, while a fomenting in the crowd showed where the informer was burying himself from recognition. The turnkey stopped before a figure stretched in sleep, and incredulously thrust his torch into the face. But the sleeper continued to inhale long breaths methodically, until, convinced of the genuineness of the sleep, the turnkey proceeded to wake him with a vigorous thrust of his foot. Dossonville started to a sitting position, opening his eyes on the suspicious visage above him and the background of fellow-prisoners who, afraid to show too much interest, held themselves at a distance and followed from the corners of their eyes. "What do you want with me?" "Are you the Citoyen Dossonville?" "I am." "The Nation summons you to appear before the bar of the popular justice!" "At eleven o'clock at night? The justice of the people never sleeps, then?" "Be quick!" Dossonville lifted himself to an upright position, restoring his pillow to its rightful function of cloak. "I will not bother about my other possessions now," he cried sarcastically. "Citoyennes and citoyens, to the pleasure of seeing you again, or not, as you prefer. Now for the justice of the people!" Under the lightness of his manner, his mind worked with the desperation of an animal at bay. Of what he was approaching he knew nothing. Yet as he advanced along the reverberant corridors, his mind assembled a dozen stratagems to meet either a whirlwind of assassins or the travesty of a trial. His eye, meanwhile alert for every detail, enveloped each portion of the journey at a glance, running the walls as a wild animal tracks his cage. Gradually his waiting ear distinguished a muffled hum, a buzz of voices, increasing in volume until out of it escaped the piercing shriek of a woman. The next moment there burst upon his hearing a hundred cries,--shrieks of terror, shouts of vengeance, cries of pity, commands and groans, drunken and maddened notes,--sharp to the ear, rushing over his mind in a storm of confusion. The gate opened and the volume smote him with the fury of a blast. He stood in the courtyard, blinking at strange forms and the crossing and recrossing of torches, striving to collect his wits. Two guards had seized him, presenting the points of their reddened swords to his breast.