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It was The Vengeance who, amidst the warm commendations of the audience, thus assisted the proceedings. The President rang his bell; but, The Vengeance, warming with encouragement, shrieked, "I defy that bell!" wherein she was likewise much commended.

"Inform the Tribunal of what you did that day within the Bastille, citizen."

"I knew," said Defarge, looking down at his wife, who stood at the bottom of the steps on which he was raised, looking steadily up at him; "I knew that this prisoner, of whom I speak, had been confined in a cell known as One Hundred and Five, North Tower.

I knew it from himself.

He knew himself by no other name than One Hundred and Five, North Tower, when he made shoes under my care.

As I serve my gun that day, I resolve, when the place shall fall, to examine that cell.

It falls.

I mount to the cell, with a fellow-citizen who is one of the Jury, directed by a gaoler.

I examine it, very closely.

In a hole in the chimney, where a stone has been worked out and replaced, I find a written paper.

This is that written paper.

I have made it my business to examine some specimens of the writing of Doctor Manette.

This is the writing of Doctor Manette.

I confide this paper, in the writing of Doctor Manette, to the hands of the President."

"Let it be read."

In a dead silence and stillness-the prisoner under trial looking lovingly at his wife, his wife only looking from him to look with solicitude at her father, Doctor Manette keeping his eyes fixed on the reader, Madame Defarge never taking hers from the prisoner, Defarge never taking his from his feasting wife, and all the other eyes there intent upon the Doctor, who saw none of them-the paper was read, as follows.

I, Alexandre Manette, unfortunate physician, native of Beauvais, and afterwards resident in Paris, write this melancholy paper in my doleful cell in the Bastille, during the last month of the year, 1767.

I write it at stolen intervals, under every difficulty.

I design to secrete it in the wall of the chimney, where I have slowly and laboriously made a place of concealment for it.

Some pitying hand may find it there, when I and my sorrows are dust.

"These words are formed by the rusty iron point with which I write with difficulty in scrapings of soot and charcoal from the chimney, mixed with blood, in the last month of the tenth year of my captivity.

Hope has quite departed from my breast.

I know from terrible warnings I have noted in myself that my reason will not long remain unimpaired, but I solemnly declare that I am at this time in the possession of my right mind-that my memory is exact and circumstantial-and that I write the truth as I shall answer for these my last recorded words, whether they be ever read by men or not, at the Eternal Judgment-seat.

"One cloudy moonlight night, in the third week of December (I think the twenty-second of the month) in the year 1757, I was walking on a retired part of the quay by the Seine for the refreshment of the frosty air, at an hour's distance from my place of residence in the Street of the School of Medicine, when a carriage came along behind me, driven very fast.

X. The Substance of the Shadow

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