Fillide sank into her chair, and, leaning her face on her hands, appeared unheeding of the intruder and the conversation that ensued. “I cannot bid thee good-day, Glyndon,” said Nicot, as in his sans-culotte fashion he strode towards the artist, his ragged hat on his head, his hands in his pockets, and the beard of a week’s growth upon his chin,--“I cannot bid thee good-day; for while the tyrant lives, evil is every sun that sheds its beams on France.” “It is true; what then? We have sown the wind, we must reap the whirlwind.” “And yet,” said Nicot, apparently not heeding the reply, and as if musingly to himself, “it is strange to think that the butcher is as mortal as the butchered; that his life hangs on as slight a thread; that between the cuticle and the heart there is as short a passage,--that, in short, one blow can free France and redeem mankind!” Glyndon surveyed the speaker with a careless and haughty scorn, and made no answer. “And,” proceeded Nicot, “I have sometimes looked round for the man born for this destiny, and whenever I have done so, my steps have led me hither!” “Should they not rather have led thee to the side of Maximilien Robespierre?” said Glyndon, with a sneer. “No,” returned Nicot, coldly,--“no; for I am a ‘suspect:’ I could not mix with his train; I could not approach within a hundred yards of his person, but I should be seized; YOU, as yet, are safe. Hear me!”--and his voice became earnest and expressive,--“hear me! There seems danger in this action; there is none. I have been with Collot d’Herbois and Bilaud-Varennes; they will hold him harmless who strikes the blow; the populace would run to thy support; the Convention would hail thee as their deliverer, the--” “Hold, man! How darest thou couple my name with the act of an assassin? Let the tocsin sound from yonder tower, to a war between Humanity and the Tyrant, and I will not be the last in the field; but liberty never yet acknowledged a defender in a felon.” There was something so brave and noble in Glyndon’s voice, mien, and manner, as he thus spoke, that Nicot at once was silenced; at once he saw that he had misjudged the man. “No,” said Fillide, lifting her face from her hands,--“no! your friend has a wiser scheme in preparation; he would leave you wolves to mangle each other. He is right; but--” “Flight!” exclaimed Nicot; “is it possible? Flight; how?--when?--by what means? All France begirt with spies and guards! Flight! would to Heaven it were in our power!” “Dost thou, too, desire to escape the blessed Revolution?”