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an the hold of a drowning woman。
Soon； Madame Defarge's hands ceased to strike； and felt at her encircled waist。 ‘It is under my arm；' said Miss Pross； in smothered tones； ‘you shall not draw it。 I am stronger than you； I bless Heaven for it。 I'll hold you till one or other of us faints or dies！'
Madame Defarge's hands were at her bosom。 Miss Pross looked up； saw what it was； struck at it； struck out a flash and a crash； and stood alone……blinded with smoke。
All this was in a second。 As the smoke cleared； leaving an awful stillness； it passed out on the air； like the soul of the furious woman whose body lay lifeless on the ground。
In the first fright and horror of her situation； Miss Pross passed the body as far from it as she could； and ran down the stairs to call for fruitless help。 Happily； she bethought herself of the consequences of what she did； in time to check herself and go back。 It was dreadful to go in at the door again； but； she did go in； and even went near it； to get the bonnet and other things that she must wear。 These she put on； out on the staircase； first shutting and locking the door and taking away the key。 She then sat down on the stairs a few moments to breathe and to cry； and then got up and hurried away。
By good fortune she had a veil on her bonnet； or she could hardly have gone along the streets without being stopped。 By good fortune； too； she was naturally so peculiar in appearance as not to show disfigurement like any other woman。 She needed both advantages； for the marks of griping fingers were deep in her face； and her hair was torn； and her dress （hastily posed with unsteady hands） was clutched and dragged a hundred ways
In crossing the bridge； she dropped the door key in the river。 Arriving at the cathedral some few minutes before her escort； and waiting there； she thought； what if the key were already taken in a net； what if it were identified； what if the door were opened and the remains discovered； what if she were stopped at the gate； sent to prison； and charged with murder！ In the midst of these fluttering thoughts； the escort appeared； took her in； and took her away。
‘Is there any noise in the streets？' she asked him。
‘The usual noises；' Mr。 Cruncher replied； and looked surprised by the question and by her aspect。
‘I don't hear you；' said Miss Pross。 ‘What do you say？'
It was in vain for Mr。 Cruncher to repeat what he said； Miss Pross could not hear him。 ‘So I'll nod my head；' thought Mr。 Cruncher； amazed； ‘at all events she'll see that。' And she did。
‘Is there any noise in the streets now？' asked Miss Pross again； presently。
Again Mr。 Cruncher nodded his head。
‘I don't hear it。'
‘Gone deaf in a hour？' said Mr。 Cruncher； ruminating； with his mind much disturbed； ‘wot's e to her？'
‘I feel；' said Miss Pross； ‘as if there had been a flash and a crash； and that crash was the last thing I should ever hear in this life。'
‘Blest if she ain't in a queer condition！' said Mr。 Cruncher； more and more disturbed。 ‘Wot can she have been a takin'； to keep her courage up？ Hark！ There's the roll of them dreadful carts！ You can hear that； miss？'
‘I can hear；' said Miss Pross； seeing that he spoke to her； ‘nothing。 O； my good man； there was first a great crash； and then a great stillness； and that stillness seems to be fixed and unchangeable； never to be broken any more as long as my life lasts。'
‘If she don't hear the roll of those dreadful carts； now very nigh their journey's end；' said Mr。 Cruncher； glancing over his shoulder； ‘it's my opinion that indeed she never will hear anything else in this world。'
And indeed she never did。
CHAPTER XV
The Footsteps Die out for Ever
ALONG the Paris streets； the death…carts rumble； hollow and harsh。 Six tumbrils carry the day's wine to La Guillotine。 All the devouring and insatiate Monsters imagined since imagination could record itself； are fused in the one realisation； Guillotine。 And yet there is not in France； with its rich variety of soil and climate； a blade； a leaf； a root； a sprig； a peppercorn； which will grow to maturity under conditions more certain than those that have produced this horror。 Crush humanity out of shape once more； under similar hammers； and it will twist itself into the same tortured forms。 Sow the same seed of rapacious licence and oppression over again； and it will surely yield the same fruit according to its kind。
Six tumbrils roll along the streets。 Change these back again to what they were； thou powerful enchanter； Time； and they shall be seen to be the carriages of absolute monarchs； the equipages of feudal nobles； the toilettes of flaring Jezebels； the churches that are not my father's house but dens of thieves； the huts of millions of starving peasants！ No； the great magician who majestically works out the appointed order of the Creator； never reverses his transformations。 ‘If thou be changed into this shape by the will of God；' say the seers to the enchanted； in the wise Arabian stories； ‘then remain so！ But； if thou wear this form through mere passing conjuration； then resume thy former aspect！' Changeless and hopeless； the tumbrils roll along。
As the sombre wheels of the six carts go round； they seem to plough up a long crooked furrow among the populace in the streets。 Ridges of faces are thrown to this side and to that； and the ploughs go steadily onward。 So used are the regular inhabitants of the houses to the spectacle； that in many windows there are no people； and in some the occupation of the hands is not so much as suspended； while the eyes survey the faces in the tumbrils。 Here and there； the inmate has visitors to see the sight； then he points his finger； with something of the placency of a curator or authorised exponent； to this cart and to this； and seems to tell who sat here yesterday； and who there the day before。
Of the riders in the tumbrils； some observe these things； and all things on their last roadside； with an impassive stare； others； with a lingering interest in the ways of life and men。 Some； seated with drooping heads； are sunk in silent despair； again； there are some so heedful of their looks that they cast upon the multitude such glances as they have seen in theatres； and in pictures。 Several close their eyes； and think； or try to get their straying thoughts together。 Only one； and he a miserable creature； of a crazed aspect； is so shattered and made drunk by horror； that he sings； and tries to dance。 Not one of the whole number appeals by look or gesture； to the pity of the people。
There is a guard of sundry horsemen riding abreast of the tumbrils； and faces are often turned up to some of them； and they are asked some question。 It would seem to be always the same question； for； it is always followed by a press of people towards the third cart。 The horsemen abreast of that cart； frequently point out one man in it with their swords。 The leading curiosity is； to know which is he； he stands at the back of the tumbril with his head bent down； to converse with a mere girl who sits on the side of the cart； and holds his hand。 He has no curiosity or care for the scene about him； and always speaks to the girl。 Here and there in the long street of St。 Honoré； cries are raised against him。 If they move him at all； it is only to a quiet smile； as he shakes his hair a little more loosely about his face。 He cannot easily touch his face； his arms being bound。
On the steps of a church； awaiting the ing…up of the tumbrils； stands the Spy and prison…sheep。 He looks into the first of them： not there。 He looks into the second： not there。 He already asks himself； ‘Has he sacrificed me？' when his face clears； as he looks into the third。
‘Which is Evrémonde？' says a man behind him。 ‘That。 At the back there。' ‘With his hand in the girl's？' ‘Yes。'
The man cries； ‘Down； Evrémonde To the Guillotine all aristocrats！ Down； Evrémonde！'
‘Hush； hush！' the Spy entreats him； timidly。
‘And why not； citizen？'
‘He is going to pay the forfeit： it will be paid in five minutes more。 Let him be at peace。'
But the man continuing to exclaim； ‘Down； Evrémonde！' the face of Evrémonde is for a moment turned towards him。 Evrémonde then sees the Spy； and looks attentively at him； and goes his way。
The clocks are on the stroke of three； and the furrow ploughed among the populace is turning round； to e 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 foremost chairs； stands The Vengeance； looking about for her friend。
‘Thérèse！' she cries； in her shrill tones。 ‘Who has seen her？ Thérèse Defarge！'
‘She never missed before；' says a knitting…woman of the sisterhood。
‘No； nor will site miss now；' cries The Vengeance； petulantly。 ‘Thérèse！'
‘Louder；' the woman remends。
Ay！ Louder； Vengeance； much louder； and still site will scarcely hear thee。 Louder yet； Vengeance； with a little oath or so added； and yet it will hardly bring her。 Send other women up and down to seek her； lingering somewhere； and yet； although the messengers have done dread deeds； it is questionable whether of their own wills they will go far enough to find her！
‘Bad Fortune！' cries The Vengeance； stamping her foot in the chair； ‘and here are the tumbrils！ And Evrémonde will be despatched in a wink； and she not here！ See her knitting in my hand； and her empty chair ready for her。 I cry with ‘vexation and disappointment！'
As The Vengeance descends from her elevation to do it； the tumbrils begin to discharge their loads。 The ministers of Sainte Guillotine are robed and ready。 Crash！……A head is held up； and the knitting…women who scarcely lifted their eyes to look at it a moment ago when it could think and speak； count One。
The second tumbril empties and moves on； the third es up。 Crash……And the knitting…women； never faltering or pausing in their work； count Two。
The supposed Evrémonde descends； and the seamstress is lifted out next after him。 He has not relinquished her patient hand in getting out； but still holds it as he promised。 He gently places her with her back to the crashing engine that constantly whirrs up and falls； and she looks into his face and thanks him。
‘But for you； dear stranger； I should not be so posed； for I am naturally a poor little thing； faint of heart； nor should I have been able to raise my thoughts to Him who was put to death； that we might have hope and fort here to…day。 I think you were sent to me by Heaven。
‘Or you to me；' says Sydney Carton。 ‘Keep your eyes upon me； dear child； and mind no other object。'
‘I mind nothing while I hold your hand。 I shall mind nothing when I let it go； if they are rapid。'
‘They will be rapid。 Fear not！'
The two stand in the fast…thinning throng of victims； but they speak as if they were alone。 Eye to eye； voice to voice； hand to hand； heart to heart； these two children of the Universal Mother； else so wide apart and differing； have e together on the dark highway； to repair home together； and to rest in her bosom。
‘Brave and generous friend； will you let me ask you one last question？ I am very ignorant； and it troubles me……just a little。'
‘Tell me what it is。'
‘I have a cousin； an only relative and an orphan； like myself； whom I love very dearly。 She is five years younger than I； and she lives in a farmer's house in the south country。 Poverty parted us； and she knows nothing of my fate……for I cannot writ……and if I could； how should I tell her！ It is better as it is。'
‘Yes； yes； better as it is。'
‘What I have been thinking as we came along； and what I am still thinking now； as I look into your kind strong face which gives me so much support； is this：……if the Republic really does good to the poor； and they e to be less hungry； and in all ways to suffer less； she may live a long time： she may even live to be old。'
‘What then； my gentle sister？'
‘Do you think：' the unplaining eyes in which there is so much endurance； fill with tears； and the lips part a little more and tremble： ‘that it will seem long to me； while I wait for her in the better land where I trust both you and I will be mercifully sheltered？'
‘It cannot be； my child； there is no Time there； and no trouble there。'
‘You fort me so much！ I am so ignorant。 Am I to kiss you now？ Is the moment e？'
‘Yes。'
She kisses his lips； he kisses hers； they solemnly bless each other。 The spare hand does not tremble as he releases it； nothing worse than a sweet； bright constancy is in the patient face。 She goes next before him…is gone； the knitting…women count Twenty…Two。
‘I am the Resurrection and the Life； saith the Lord： he that believeth in me； though he were dead； yet shall he live： and whosoever liveth and believeth in me shall never die。'
The murmuring of many voices； the upturning of many faces； the pressing on of many footsteps in the outskirts of the crowd； so that it swells forward in a mass； like one great heave of water； all flashes away。 Twenty…Three。
They said of him； about the city that night； that it was the peacefullest man's face ever beheld there。 Many added that he looked sublime and prophetic。
One of the most remarkable sufferers by the same axe……a woman……Had