The sparks flashed upward, the straw blazed, and for one instant the whole dungeon was illuminated. Jacques caught one glance at a deadly white face, with the eyes wide open, looking at him. He had no time for recognition, but was searching for the candle. It lay at his feet, and had been trodden upon. What of that? A wick was there, and tallow enough to last a minute—he asked no more. He began to tremble, for the wick had gathered moisture from the floor, and refused to ignite. “Great God! stand by me this one minute!” he exclaimed, passionately, forcing his hand to hold the burning straw with steadiness. He had given the straw a twist, and it kept fire. The spluttering wick broke into an uncertain flame, trembled, half went out, and rose to a clear light. “Thank God!” Jacques went close to the prisoner with these words on his lips. He held the light down to that white face. The wild glitter of those eyes frightened him. “Speak to me! If you remember a name, tell it before any one comes. Speak! For God’s sake, speak! Are you Dr. Gosner?” The prisoner began to tremble violently; his thin hands clasped themselves; every feature in his face quivered, and from his white lips dropped these faltering words; “That was my name when I had one.” Jacques blew out the candle, and flung it into the darkness. CHAPTER LIV. A DETERMINED BENEFACTOR. The Count De Mirabeau had just come in from an exciting debate at the club. This man seemed to have changed places with his foster-brother; for while one had, to a certain extent, cast off the coarseness which made him a favorite of the people, the man of noble birth had been striving to brutalize himself down to a level with the lowest strata of civilized life. Marie Antoinette’s rejection of his advances had plunged him deeper and deeper into the abysses of popular favor. But there was a natural revolt in all this; Mirabeau would much rather have been the saviour of monarchy than the leader of the mob, and his very power as a demagogue sometimes filled him with disgust. That particular night the count was in a restive frame of mind; by bringing out the very coarsest powers of his nature he had excited the crowd that day into the most clamorous homage—homage that never would have been given to the splendid genius and great powers that he knew himself to possess, unaided by the rudest and lowest passions. It is doubtful if even his powerful intellect foresaw the terrible scenes that the eloquence of men like him was destined to fasten upon France. That night his better nature recoiled from the hideous work his genius was doing, and he flung himself down on a chair, weary and sickened by the clamorous adoration of his followers. Some one knocked at the door of his chamber while he was in this dissatisfied mood, and he called out roughly for the person to come in, thinking that, perhaps, it was some messenger from the printing-office.