“Oh, yes, I see; too young for the work. There, citoyen. What is your name?” “St. Just.” “Long live Citoyen St. Just! Down with the Bastille!” shouted the man, striking the neck of his bottle against the stone bench, and giving it, all dripping with red wine, to St. Just. “It is some of the governor’s Burgundy; don’t fear to use it. He will never want it, our people over yonder have taken care of that.” “Dead, great Heavens! they have not murdered him,” exclaimed St. Just, filled with new horror. “We promised him safe conduct.” “It seems our friends thought better of it. I saw him half an hour ago on his way to the Hôtel de Ville. He was bareheaded then, and looked brave enough, with all our people hooting at him. Hullin was at his side, and did his best to quiet our patriots; but somehow, his foot stumbled, and when he got up again, Delaunay’s head was on a pike, dancing over the crowd.” “It was a dastardly act, treacherous to him and to us,” said St. Just sternly. “For my part, I think the fellow fought bravely enough for his life to have kept it,” said the man. “But Down with the Bastille! Down with the enemies of France! I will get another bottle of his wine; keep that, citoyen; the girl needs it more than I do, especially as I can get more. Take some yourself. It will bring the color back to your face, which looks like a ghost through the smoke. Bah! it stifles one.” St. Just did indeed look pale, and his hand trembled, as he held the wine to Marguerite’s lips. They did not move, and he was compelled to force the wine between them. Still, she did not stir. These two persons were quite alone in the crowd now. No one observed them, no one cared whether the girl lived or died. St. Just bent over her, greatly troubled. His breath bathed her cheek, his hand pressed hers, his voice of agony pursued her sleeping spirit. “Marguerite—Marguerite, for Heaven’s sake, for my sake, open your eyes. Do you wish me to die, Marguerite? One word—one look—one breath, only let me know that you are alive.” His voice reached the girl’s soul, wherever it was. Her eyelids began to tremble, her lips parted and grew red with a soft, gradual color. “Marguerite, my Marguerite!” “I hear, I am coming,” murmured the girl; “oh my beloved, I hear you.” But for the crowd St. Just would have fallen down upon his knees and wept over her such tears as men like him alone can shed. For the first time, in that half unconscious state, she had confessed her love for him. Marguerite came to herself at last, and opening her great, dreamy eyes, answered back the smile that glowed on St. Just’s face. “I knew, I felt sure of it,” she said, quite unconscious that any words had escaped her lips before. “When I come out of my dreams that face is always near, but it fades away.” All at once the girl was aroused out of her dreamy weakness—a new gang of insurgents swept by the bench where she lay, shouting, howling, and brandishing their pikes in the air.