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The hour was come, when Saint Antoine was to execute his horrible

idea of hoisting up men for lamps to show what he could be and

do. Saint Antoine's blood was up, and the blood of tyranny and

domination by the iron hand was down--down on the steps of the

Hotel de Ville where the governor's body lay--down on the sole of

the shoe of Madame Defarge where she had trodden on the body to

steady it for mutilation. "Lower the lamp yonder!" cried Saint

Antoine, after glaring round for a new means of death; "here is

one of his soldiers to be left on guard!" The swinging sentinel

was posted, and the sea rushed on.

The sea of black and threatening waters, and of destructive

upheaving of wave against wave, whose depths were yet unfathomed

and whose forces were yet unknown. The remorseless sea of

turbulently swaying shapes, voices of vengeance, and faces

hardened in the furnaces of suffering until the touch of pity

could make no mark on them.