ing, scurrying, like a human torrent let out of a whirlpool, rushed down headlong towards the barriers.
Up the Rue Turbigo to the Belleville gate, the Rue des Filles, and the Rue du Chemin Vert, towards Popincourt, they ran, knocking each other down, jostling the weaker ones on one side, trampling others underfoot. They were all rough, coarse creatures, accustomed to these wild bousculades, ready to pick themselves up, again after any number of falls; whilst the mud was slimy and soft to tumble on, and those who did the trampling had no shoes on their feet.
They rushed out from the dark, open place, these creatures of the night, into streets darker still.
On they ran—on! on!—now in thick, heaving masses, anon in loose, straggling groups— some north, some south, some east, some west.
But it was from the east that came the seagull's cry.
The little band ran boldly towards the east. Down the Rue de la Republique they followed their leader's call. The crowd was very thick here; the Barrière Ménilmontant was close by, and beyond it there was the cemetery of Père Lachaise. It was the nearest gate to the Temple Prison, and the mob wanted to be up and doing, not to spend too much time running
