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Checking the postmaster, who was for turning his horse's head to

the yard (the drunken patriot sat composedly in his saddle

looking on, with the line round his wrist), Darnay said, as soon

as he could make his voice heard:

"Friends, you deceive yourselves, or you are deceived. I am not a

traitor."

"He lies!" cried the smith. "He is a traitor since the decree.

His life is forfeit to the people. His cursed life is not his

own!"

At the instant when Darnay saw a rush in the eyes of the crowd,

which another instant would have brought upon him, the postmaster

turned his horse into the yard, the escort rode in close upon his

horse's flanks, and the postmaster shut and barred the crazy

double gates. The farrier struck a blow upon them with his

hammer, and the crowd groaned; but, no more was done.

"What is this decree that the smith spoke of?" Darnay asked the

postmaster, when he had thanked him, and stood beside him in the

yard.

"Truly, a decree for selling the property of emigrants."

"When passed?"