And so they followed their escort whithersoever it chose to lead them.
Their eyes wandered aimlessly over the mist-laden landscape of this portion of deserted Paris. They had turned away from the river now, and were following the Rue des Arts. Close by on the right was the dismal little hostelry, "La Cruche Cassée," where Sir Percy Blakeney lived. Déroulède, as they neared the place, caught himself vaguely wondering what had become of his English friend.
But it would take more than the ingenuity of the Scarlet Pimpernel to get two noted prisoners out of Paris to-day. Even if
"Halt!"
The word of command rang out clearly and distinctly through the rain-soaked atmosphere.
Déroulède threw up his head and listened. Something strange and unaccountable in that same word of command had struck his sensitive ear.
Yet the party had halted, and there was a click as of bayonets or muskets levelled ready to fire.
All had happened in less than a few seconds. The next moment there was a loud cry:
"À moi, Déroulède! 'tis the Scarlet Pimpernel!"
A vigorous blow from an unseen hand had
