第276章（第2页）

or gesture, to the pity of the people.

There is a guard of sundry horsemen riding abreast of the

tumbrils, and faces are often turned up to some of them, and they

are asked some question. It would seem to be always the same

question, for it is always followed by a press of people towards the

third cart. The horsemen abreast of that cart, frequently point out

one man in it with their swords. The leading curiosity is, to know

which is he; he stands at the back of the tumbril with his head

Charles Dickens ElecBook Classics

bent down, to converse with a mere girI who sits on the side of the

cart, and holds his hand. He has no curiosity or care for the scene

about him, and always speaks to the girl. Here and there in the

long street of St. Honore, cries are raised against him. If they move

him at all, it is only to a quiet smile, as he shakes his hair a little

more loosely about his face. He cannot easily touch his face, his

arms being bound.

On the steps of a church, awaiting the coming-up of the

tumbrils, stands the Spy and prison-sheep. He looks into the first

of them: not there. He looks into the second: not there. He already

asks himself, “Has he sacrificed me?” when his face clears, as he

looks into the third.

“Which is Evremonde?” says a man behind him.

“That. At the back there.”

“With his hand in the girl’s?”

一秒记住新域名www.privatemailbag.com

请勿开启浏览器阅读模式，否则将导致章节内容缺失及无法阅读下一章。