Again he was startled from his musings. Other forms suddenly appeared in the white moonlit courtyard, walking slowly up and down, in pairs, singly, or in groups. They came and went, stopped, conversed with or took leave of each other, all in a great hush, without seeming to notice the Incorruptible, who in his fear kept as much as possible aloof, never moving his eyes from them a moment. Suddenly, he uttered a cry. He had bent forward to examine their features and had recognised ... Madame Roland! ... Madame Roland! ... and Madame Elizabeth, the king's sister; ... Good God! and there was Charlotte Corday, the girl who had killed Marat! The courtyard filled with new forms, blanched and wan, gliding about with supernatural grace in the pale moonlight. Robespierre stood rooted to the spot, seized with wild terror. "Am I mad?" he asked himself. Ghosts! Yes, they were ghosts! What! was he going to believe in ghosts, like old women and children? It was folly, crass folly, and he repeated aloud--"Madness! sheer madness!" But what did it all mean! What were those wandering forms which reminded him of beings long dead? Were they subtle effluences of their bodies that could pass through the prison walls, invisible by day, but luminous at night, as phosphorescent spectres were said to flit among tombstones in churchyards by moonlight, to the dismay of the weak and credulous. "Yes, the weak and credulous!" he repeated, in a voice which quavered none the less, "the weak and credulous, easily prone to fear and remorse..." He went towards the gate of the men's ward livid with fright, in the hope that the watchman would come and put an end to these harrowing phantasms. He cried out in desperation-- "Does the man never mean to come!" At that moment a man's form appeared in the gallery to his right, and he went towards it hopefully. Barassin? But he recoiled. No! it was not he! The form grew more distinct, others followed. There were now six, eight, ten, twenty of them, a band of prisoners slowly and silently moving towards the gate. They were coming, all coming! He recognised them: "The Girondins! .. Brissot! .. Vergniaud! .." Were all his victims then going to show themselves behind those iron bars like avengers, to torture and madden him? Robespierre was suddenly dazzled by a stream of moonlight illuminating an iron grating just above him, which he had not noticed on his entrance. Outlines of fresh forms appeared behind the bars, gradually growing more distinct. They were the ghosts of other victims! For he recognised them, while they, apparently, were unconscious of his presence.