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Charles Darnay, alone in a cell, had sustained himself with no

flattering delusion since he came to it from the Tribunal. In

every line of the narrative he had heard, he had heard his

condemnation. He had fully comprehended that no personal

influence could possibly save him, that he was virtually

sentenced by the millions, and that units could avail him

nothing.

Nevertheless, it was not easy, with the face of his beloved wife

fresh before him, to compose his mind to what it must bear. His

hold on life was strong, and it was very, very hard, to loosen;

by gradual efforts and degrees unclosed a little here, it

clenched the tighter there; and when he brought his strength to

bear on that hand and it yielded, this was closed again. There

was a hurry, too, in all his thoughts, a turbulent and heated

working of his heart, that contended against resignation. If, for

a moment, he did feel resigned, then his wife and child who had

to live after him, seemed to protest and to make it a selfish

thing.