After a while they came down in a towering rage, blaming one another for what had happened. They were just in the humour to be quarrelsome, and as I stood motionless in my narrow sentry-box I heard as pretty a battle of words as it has ever been my lot to listen to. Their one comfort was that I could not be far away. Either I had gone out by the window, in which case I had undoubtedly broken my neck; or I was down in the cellar, in which case I would keep till morning. "Meanwhile, comrades, let us drink long life to the Republic, and down with the Girondists." So to drink they fell, but were hardly settled when a loud summons came at the outer door, and a shout of, "Open, in the name of the Republic One and Indivisible!" Then did mine host quake in his shoes, and his comrades turned pale. "To bed!" whispered my host with trembling voice. "Go up and sleep." They were not long in obeying, and that night the bed that was meant for me held three of the soundest sleepers in all France. The knocking continued, and mine host, feigning a great yawn, took down his key and asked who was there. "Citoyen Picquot, open to the National Guard." The door opened, and half-a-dozen soldiers trooped into the shop. "Produce your lodgers," demanded the soldier in command. "I have but three, citizen soldier. Follow me, they shall be at your service." The officer followed my host upstairs; the others remained below. Presently I heard a loud outcry and scuffling of feet above, and a shouted word of command. The soldiers instantly rushed up the stairs. But no speed of theirs could equal that with which I darted from my hiding-place and out at the open door into the street, thanking Heaven that whatever rats might be caught that night in the Rue d'Agnes I was not one of them. CHAPTER SIXTEEN. "VIVE LA GUILLOTINE!" It was midnight when I got clear of the Auberge "a l'Irlandois" in the Rue d'Agnes, and being a fine, warm autumn night I was by no means the only occupant of the street. This was fortunate for me, for the guards posted at either end would have been more inquisitive as to a solitary stranger than one of a company of noisy idlers. That night there had been a great performance in one of the theatres in Paris, which had lasted far into the night, and was only lately over. Those I overheard speak of it said it had been a great patriotic spectacle, in the course of which National Guards and cadets had marched across the stage, unfurling the banner of the Republic, and taking the oath of the people amid scenes of wild enthusiasm and shouting. To add to the enthusiasm of the occasion a party of real volunteers had appeared, and after receiving the three-coloured cockade from their sweethearts, had shouldered their guns and marched, singing the Marseillaise, straight from the theatre to the road for La Vendue, where they were going to shed their blood for their country.