“Bring the woman too,” he said; and one of them brought her forth and threw her across a horse. I saw with a sigh of relief that she had fainted. “Give me your rope, Couthon,” he added to one of his men. The rope was a strong yet slender line. Already in one end of it there was a running noose, and I shuddered as I guessed its meaning. He threw the noose over my head, drew it tight about my neck and made the other end fast to a ring in his saddle. “Release him,” he commanded, with an evil laugh. “He can’t get away. Forward!” For an instant the thought flashed through my brain that I would end it here, that I would let myself be dragged under the hoofs of the horses. Then, as a trooper cantered by me bearing a limp form before him, I realized my cowardice. So long as a breath of life remained I must fight to save her from the hideous fate which threatened her. So I ran along in the dust beside my captor in such an agony of rage and despair as I had never known. If a wish of mine could have engulfed the world in ruin I would instantly have uttered it. I prayed for an earthquake to swallow us, for a thunderbolt to blast us. I looked up at the clear sky and cursed it. So this was the end--for me, death by the rope--for her.... The lights of the camp gleamed ahead. In a moment we passed the outpost and approached a tent before which a sentry was stationed. “Announce to Citizen Goujon,” said my captor, reining in his horse, “that we have here two traitors to be judged.” The sentry saluted and disappeared into the tent. As for me, my heart had stopped at the mention of that name. Goujon! Was he to prove my murderer, too? And Charlotte---- “Enter, citizen,” said the sentry, holding back the flap of the tent. My captor threw himself from the saddle and led me into the tent, the rope still about my neck. Another followed carrying Charlotte. Within the tent was a table upon which two candles gleamed. Before it sat a man examining a pile of papers. He looked up as we entered, and I shuddered as I met his eyes; for they seemed a snake’s eyes, so veiled and cold and venomous they were. The face was pock-marked, clammy-grey, and the nose so fissured and swollen that it had the appearance of a sponge. He glanced from me to the burden which the trooper bore, and a slow flush crept into his cheeks. “Well?” he asked, sharply, turning back to my captor. And again I had the pleasure of listening to the highly-colored story of my recent exploit. I was a murderer, a traitor--undoubtedly an aristocrat. I had shot down in cold blood the officer who was interrogating me. I was plainly a desperate character and should be hanged before I had further opportunity for evil. “But before hanging him,” my captor concluded, “I thought it best to bring him to you for interrogation. He may be a spy.” Goujon nodded.