We were in a fairly quiet street when Madame Coutance suddenly exclaimed, "Let us rest a few minutes in this doorway. Marie, look up, child; there is nothing to fear now; we are safe here." For answer, the girl, whose nerves were completely overwrought, shuddered and sobbed. "Take me away," she cried, "oh, take me away. Back to Aunay; anywhere out of this horrible place." "That is what we are going to do," I said soothingly. "I have a special permit which will pass us through the gate of St. Denis. But you must be strong and brave, or we shall not get there." "I will try," she moaned, "I will try; but oh, it is horrible." "Hush!" exclaimed her aunt sharply, "listen." I had been too much occupied with Marie to pay attention to anything else, but now I distinctly heard the sound of voices on the other side of the door. "Poor child," a woman was saying softly, "she is half dead with fright. Let her come in, I say." "But the rioters?" exclaimed a second person. "Pouf! The street is clear enough. Take down the bar, Jules." Then we heard a sound as of a heavy bar being removed. The door opened ever so slightly and a woman cried, "Quick, come in, before you are seen. Where is the poor girl? Cheer up, my little one, no one shall harm you here. Now, Jules, put up the bar again! Ah! that is right. This way, monsieur," and she led us all into a tiny room, poorly furnished, but neat and clean. She was a comely woman of middle age, rather short, with bright keen eyes, and pleasant face: her husband, Jules, was a ruddy-cheeked man, bald on the top of his head, but with a ring of stiff white hair which stood up like a fence. "It is really very generous of you to risk so much for strangers," I began, but the woman would not let me finish. "One cannot let a child die for want of a helping hand," said she briskly, "and as for these brigands, I would cut off all their heads at a blow. Ah, it is easy to see that you do not belong to the _canaille_." I have had little experience of the sea, but as we sat in that room I think we must have felt like sailors who, after a stormy voyage, have glided into a peaceful harbour. Both Jules and his wife were very attentive, especially to Marie, who was getting much calmer; they gave us food and drink, and offered to hide us in the house as long as we cared to stay. "It is growing late," said they, "and you cannot go abroad to-night. To-morrow----" "The danger will be just as great," interrupted Madame Coutance. "We thank you for your kind offer, but, believe me, it will be better for us to depart now. Monsieur has a pass, and once outside the city we shall be safe." "And to-morrow," said Marie, "it may be too late. Besides, you may get into trouble for hiding us, and then I should never forgive myself."