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out. “See Defarge!” She stood immovable close to the grim old
officer, and remained immovable close to him; remained
immovable close to him through the streets, as Defarge and the rest
bore him along; remained immovable close to him when he was
got near his destination, and began to be struck at from behind;
remained immovable close to him when the longgathering rain of
stabs and blows fell heavy; was so close to him when he dropped
dead under it, that, suddenly animated, she put her foot upon his
neck, and with her cruel knife-long ready-hewed off his head.

The hour was come, when Saint Antoine was to execute his
horrible idea of hoisting up men for lamps to show what he could
be and do. Saint Antoine’s blood was up, and the blood of tyranny
and domination by the iron hand was down-down on the steps of
the Hotel de Ville where the governor’s body laydown on the sole
of the shoe of Madame Defarge where she had trodden on the
body to steady it for mutilation. “Lower the lamp yonder!” cried
Saint Antoine, after glaring round for a new means of death; “here
is one of his soldiers to be left on guard!” The swinging sentinel
was posted, and the sea rushed on.

The sea of black and threatening waters, and of destructive
upheaving of wave against wave, whose depths were yet
unfathomed and whose forces were yet unknown. The remorseless
sea of turbulently swaying shapes, voices of vengeance, and faces
hardened in the furnaces of suffering until the touch of pity could
make no mark on them.

But, in the ocean of faces where every fierce and furious expression
was in vivid life, there were two groups of faces-each seven in
number-so fixedly contrasting with the rest, that never did sea roll
which bore more memorable wrecks with it. Seven faces of
prisoners, suddenly released by the storm that had burst their
tomb, were carried high overhead: all scared, all lost, all
wondering and amazed, as if the Last Day were come, and those
who rejoiced around them were lost spirits. Other seven faces there
were, carried higher, seven dead faces, whose drooping eyelids
and half-seen eyes awaited the Last Day. Impassive faces, yet with
a suspended-not an abolished-expression on them; faces, rather,
in a fearful pause, as having yet to raise the dropped lids of the
eyes, and bear witness with the bloodless lips, “THOU DIDST IT!”
Seven prisoners released, seven gory heads on pikes, the keys of
the accursed fortress of the eight strong towers, some discovered
letters and other memorials of prisoners of old time, long dead of
broken hearts, such, and such-like, the loudly echoing footsteps of
Saint Antoine escort through the Paris streets in midJuly, one
thousand seven hundred and eighty-nine. Now, Heaven defeat the
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