A Tale of Two Cities

was a deeper shade than the pendent lamp could throw, or any object
in the room distortedly reflect--a shade of horror.

He occupied rooms in the Bank, in his fidelity to the House of which
he had grown to be a part, like strong root-ivy.  It chanced that they
derived a kind of security from the patriotic occupation of the main
building, but the true-hearted old gentleman never calculated about
that.  All such circumstances were indifferent to him, so that he did
his duty.  On the opposite side of the courtyard, under a colonnade,
was extensive standing--for carriages--where, indeed, some carriages
of Monseigneur yet stood.  Against two of the pillars were fastened
two great flaring flambeaux, and in the light of these, standing out
in the open air, was a large grindstone:  a roughly mounted thing
which appeared to have hurriedly been brought there from some
neighbouring smithy, or other workshop.  Rising and looking out of
window at these harmless objects, Mr. Lorry shivered, and retired to
his seat by the fire.  He had opened, not only the glass window, but
the lattice blind outside it, and he had closed both again, and he
shivered through his frame.

From the streets beyond the high wall and the strong gate, there came
the usual night hum of the city, with now and then an indescribable
ring in it, weird and unearthly, as if some unwonted sounds of a
terrible nature were going up to Heaven.

"Thank God," said Mr. Lorry, clasping his hands, "that no one near
and dear to me is in this dreadful town to-night.  May He have mercy
on all who are in danger!"

Soon afterwards, the bell at the great gate sounded, and he thought,
"They have come back!" and sat listening.  But, there was no loud
irruption into the courtyard, as he had expected, and he heard the
gate clash again, and all was quiet.

The nervousness and dread that were upon him inspired that vague
uneasiness respecting the Bank, which a great change would naturally
awaken, with such feelings roused.  It was well guarded, and he got
up to go among the trusty people who were watching it, when his door
suddenly opened, and two figures rushed in, at sight of which he fell
back in amazement.

Lucie and her father!  Lucie with her arms stretched out to him, and
with that old look of earnestness so concentrated and intensified,
that it seemed as though it had been stamped upon her face expressly
to give force and power to it in this one passage of her life.

"What is this?" cried Mr. Lorry, breathless and confused.
"What is the matter?  Lucie!  Manette!  What has happened?  What has
brought you here?  What is it?"

With the look fixed upon him, in her paleness and wildness,
she panted out in his arms, imploringly, "O my dear friend!
My husband!"

"Your husband, Lucie?"

"Charles."

"What of Charles?"

"Here.

"Here, in Paris?"

"Has been here some days--three or four--I don't know how many--
I can't collect my thoughts.  An errand of generosity brought him
here unknown to us; he was stopped at the barrier, and sent to prison."

The old man uttered an irrepressible cry.  Almost at the same moment,
the beg of the great gate rang again, and a loud noise of feet and
voices came pouring into the courtyard.

"What is that noise?" said the Doctor, turning towards the window.

"Don't look!" cried Mr. Lorry.  "Don't look out!  Manette,
for your life, don't touch the blind!"

The Doctor turned, with his hand upon the fastening of the window,
and said, with a cool, bold smile:

"My dear friend, I have a charmed life in this city.  I have been a
Bastille prisoner.  There is no patriot in Paris--in Paris?  In
France--who, knowing me to have been a prisoner in the Bastille,
would touch me, except to overwhelm me with embraces, or carry me in
triumph.  My old pain has given me a power that has brought us
through the barrier, and gained us news of Charles there, and brought
us here.  I knew it would be so; I knew I could help Charles out of
all danger; I told Lucie so.--What is that noise?"  His hand was again
upon the window.

"Don't look!" cried Mr. Lorry, absolutely desperate.  "No, Lucie, my
dear, nor you!"  He got his arm round her, and held her.  "Don't be so
terrified, my love.  I solemnly swear to you that I know of no harm
having happened to Charles; that I had no suspicion even of his being
in this fatal place.  What prison is he in?"

"La Force!"

"La Force!  Lucie, my child, if ever you were brave and serviceable in
your life--and you were always both--you will compose yourself now,