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The clocks are on the stroke of three, and the furrow ploughed

among the populace is turning round, to come on into the place of

execution, and end. The ridges thrown to this side and to that,

now crumble in and close behind the last plough as it passes on,

for all are following to the Guillotine. In front of it, seated

in chairs, as in a garden of public diversion, are a number of

women, busily knitting. On one of the fore-most chairs, stands

The Vengeance, looking about for her friend.

"Therese!" she cries, in her shrill tones. "Who has seen her?

Therese Defarge!"

"She never missed before," says a knitting-woman of the

sisterhood.

"No; nor will she miss now," cries The Vengeance, petulantly.

"Therese."

"Louder," the woman recommends.