Biddy, as I learned later on, had stuck of her own accord to her master and mistress through all their troubles, and presumed on her position to take her chicken-hearted lord severely to task when, like to-night, the grumbling fit was upon him. As for me, I was dismissed with little thanks from anybody; but Biddy bade me call now and again to have a crack with her. "I had a liking for your father, poor soul!" said she, wiping a corner of her eye, "and thought he might have done worse than make me a mother to you and Tim, rest his soul! But it's as well as it is, maybe. Poor Tim! I always liked him better than you. He was his mother's son. Well, well, he's dead too. Barry, my boy, we can't all just have what we've not got; we all have to stand out of our own. Good-night to yez, and come and see an old body sometimes that held you in her arms when you were a fine kicking boy." I confess Biddy puzzled me a little by her talk. Whenever she spoke of old days she had the air of keeping a secret to herself, which roused my curiosity, and made me recall my poor mother's dying words to myself. That set me thinking of Kilgorman and the strange mystery that hung there; and that set me on to think of Knockowen, and his honour and my lady and Miss Kit; and so by the time I had reached my shabby kennel in the Rue Saint Antoine, I was fairly miserable and ready to feel very lonely and friendless. However, I was not left much time to mope, for in the night the street was up with a rumour that a "federalist" deputy, who was known to be in the pay of Pitt, the English minister, had been traced to some hiding- place near, and that a strict house-to-house search was being made by the soldiers for him. "_A bas les mouchards! a bas Pitt! a bas les etrangers! Vive la guillotine_!" shrieked the mob. Whereat I deemed it prudent to join them and shriek too, rather than await the visit of the soldiers. Not, thought I, that any one would do me the honour of mistaking me for an agent of Mr Pitt; but there was no knowing what craze the Paris mob was not ready for, or on what slight pretext an innocent man might not be sent to the scaffold. So I sneaked quietly down the stairs, where, alas! I found I had fallen from the frying-pan into the fire. A file of soldiers was ready for me, and received me with open arms. "Your name, your business, your destination," demanded they. "Citizen soldiers, my name is Gallagher; I am a stranger in Paris in search of occupation." "Enough. You are arrested. Stand aside!" "But, citizen--" A stroke with the flat of the soldier's sword silenced me, and I gave myself up for lost. But as a prisoner of the Revolution I should at least not be lonely, and on the guillotine itself I should have company.