As he fell it seemed as if the weight which held all still was on the moment removed, and they were free. With scared faces they gathered around the fallen man and raised him. He was quite dead; but on his forehead, where there was no mark before, was the impress of a red trident. A man, evidently one of the waiters, who had forced his way into the group, laid his finger on the mark and looked up at the Bishop. There was an unholy exultation in his face as he met the priest's eyes, and said: "He's marked twice--_curse him!_" UNDER THE ACHILLES O Charity! thy mystery Doth cover many things. "Now, don't break hup the 'appy 'ome!" "Move those wite mice o' yourn hon, then, 'stead o' sittin' like a hitalian monkey hon a bloomin' barrel horgan." A hansom had hacked into a green Atlas in Piccadilly Circus, at the point where Regent Street and Piccadilly meet. From his height of vantage the omnibus driver threw a sarcasm at the cabman, and Jehu, instead of attending to business, lifted his head to fling back an answer. The sorrel in the hansom likewise lifted his head, stood on his hind legs, and then, plunging sideways on to the pavement, locked the wheels of the two conveyances together, completely stopping the roadway. It was not a good time for a thing of this kind to happen. It was Piccadilly Circus, just after the big furnaces of the theatres had let out their red-hot contents. The molten stream was hissing through the streets, boiling in the throbbing Circus. Such a crowd was there, too, as no city besides may show; but London need not plume itself on this. Here, in that hour, when the past of one day was becoming the present of another, assembled together the good and the bad. The honest father of a family, with a pure wife or daughter on his arm, jostled the soiled dove in her jewelled shame. Here were gathered the men whose lives by daylight were white, those who trod the primrose path, and the workers of the nation; gilded infamy, tawdry sin, joy and sorrow, shame and innocence, vice blacker than night, more hideous than despair. Above blazed the electric stars of the Monico and the Criterion. A stream of fire marked Coventry Street. To the right the lamp glare terminated abruptly in Waterloo Place, leaving the moon and the lonely Park together. From all the great arteries, through Shaftesbury Avenue, through Coventry Street, through the Haymarket, the toilers of the night beat up to the roaring Circus, and it was full. I, a derelict of humanity, was there. In the crowd that fought and elbowed its way for room--it was a crowd all elbows--I was the first to reach the hansom. There were two occupants: a man who lay back with a scared face, and a woman who laughed as she attempted to step out. It was as daylight, and the rush of an awful recollection came to me--God help me! It was my wife! My hand stretched out to aid