night to help them out of it, and they passed on once more into
solitude and loneliness: jingling through the untimely cold and
wet, among impoverished fields that had yielded no fruits of the
earth that year, diversified by the blackened remains of burnt
houses, and by the sudden emergence from ambuscade, and sharp
reining up across their way, of patriot patrols on the watch on all
the roads.
Daylight at last found them before the wall of Paris. The barrier
was closed and strongly guarded when they rode up to it.
“Where are the papers of this prisoner?” demanded a resolutelooking
man in authority, who was summoned out by the guard.
Naturally struck by the disagreeable word, Charles Darnay
requested the speaker to take notice that he was a free traveller
and French citizen, in charge of an escort which the disturbed
state of the country had imposed upon him, and which he had paid
for.
“Where,” repeated the same personage, without taking any
heed of him whatever, “are the papers of this prisoner?”
The drunken patriot had them in his cap, and produced them.
Casting his eyes over Gabelle’s letter, the same personage in
authority showed some disorder and surprise and looked at
Darnay with a close attention.
He left escort and escorted without saying a word, however,
and went into the guard-room; meanwhile they sat upon their
horses outside the gate. Looking about him while in this state of
suspense, Charles Darnay observed that the gate was held by a
mixed guard of soldiers and patriots, the latter far outnumbering
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the former; and that while in