"If you remember," said Carton, dictating, "the words that passed between us long ago, you will comprehend this when you see it. I am thankful that the time has come when I can prove them." Carton's hand was withdrawn from his breast, and slowly and softly moved down the writer's face. For a few seconds Darnay struggled faintly, Carton's hand held firmly at his nostrils; then he fell senseless to the ground. Carton called quietly to the turnkey, who looked in and went again as Carton was putting the paper in Darnay's breast. He came back with two men. They raised the unconscious figure and carried it away. The door closed, and Carton was left alone. Straining his powers of listening to the utmost, he listened for any sound that might denote suspicion or alarm. There was none. Presently his door opened, and a gaoler looked in, merely saying: "Follow me," whereupon Carton followed him into a dark room. As he stood by the wall in a dim corner, a young woman, with a slight, girlish figure, came to speak to him. "Citizen Evrémonde," she said, "I am a poor little seamstress, who was with you in La Force." He murmured an answer. "I heard you were released." "I was, and was taken again and condemned." "If I may ride with you, will you let me hold your hand?" As the patient eyes were lifted to his face, he saw a sudden doubt in them. "Are you dying for him?" she whispered. "Oh, you will let me hold your hand?" "Hush! Yes, my poor sister, to the last." That afternoon a coach going out of Paris drove up to the Barrier. "Papers!" demanded the guard. The papers are handed out and read. "Alexandre Manette, Lucie Manette, her child. Jarvis Lorry, banker, English. Sydney Carton, advocate, English. Which is he?" He lies here, in a corner, apparently in a swoon. He is in bad health. "Behold your papers, countersigned." "One can depart, citizen?" "One can depart." The ministers of Sainte Guillotin are robed and ready. Crash!--and the women who sit with their knitting in front of the guillotine count one. Crash!--and the women count two. The supposed Evrémonde descends with the seamstress from the tumbril, and joins the fast-thinning throng of victims before the crashing engine that constantly whirrs up and falls. The spare hand does not tremble as he grasps it. She goes next before him--is gone. The knitting women count twenty-two. The murmuring of many voices, the pressing on of many footsteps in the outskirts of the crowd, so that it swells forward like one great heave of water, all flashes away. Twenty-three. They said of him about the city that night that it was the peacefulest man's face ever beheld there. Had he given utterance to his thoughts at the foot of the scaffold, they would have been these: