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So resistless was the force of the ocean bearing him on, that

even to draw his breath or turn his head was as impracticable as

if he had been struggling in the surf at the South Sea, until he

was landed in the outer courtyard of the Bastille. There, against

an angle of a wall, he made a struggle to look about him. Jacques

Three was nearly at his side; Madame Defarge, still heading some

of her women, was visible in the inner distance, and her knife

was in her hand. Everywhere was tumult, exultation, deafening and

maniacal bewilderment, astounding noise, yet furious dumb-show.

"The Prisoners!"

"The Records!"

"The secret cells!"

"The instruments of torture!"

"The Prisoners!"