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The second tumbril empties and moves on; the third comes up.

Crash!--And the knitting-women, never faltering or pausing in

their Work, count Two.

The supposed Evremonde descends, and the seamstress is lifted out

next after him. He has not relinquished her patient hand in

getting out, but still holds it as he promised. He gently places

her with her back to the crashing engine that constantly whirrs

up and falls, and she looks into his face and thanks him.

"But for you, dear stranger, I should not be so composed, for I

am naturally a poor little thing, faint of heart; nor should I

have been able to raise my thoughts to Him who was put to death,

that we might have hope and comfort here to-day. I think you were

sent to me by Heaven."

"Or you to me," says Sydney Carton. "Keep your eyes upon me, dear

child, and mind no other object."

"I mind nothing while I hold your hand. I shall mind nothing when

I let it go, if they are rapid."

"They will be rapid. Fear not!"