The two martyrs of Liberty doff their disguises; don their long gowns; behold, in the space of an hour, by aid of ushers and swift runners, the Parlement, with its Counsellors, Presidents, even Peers, sits anew assembled.

The assembled Parlement declares that these its two martyrs cannot be given up, to any sublunary authority; moreover that the 'session is permanent,' admitting of no adjournment, till pursuit of them has been relinquished.
And so, with forensic eloquence, denunciation and protest, with couriers going and returning, the Parlement, in this state of continual explosion that shall cease neither night nor day, waits the issue.

Awakened Paris once more inundates those outer courts; boils, in floods wilder than ever, through all avenues.

Dissonant hubbub there is; jargon as of Babel, in the hour when they were first smitten (as here) with mutual unintelligibilty, and the people had not yet dispersed! Paris City goes through its diurnal epochs, of working and slumbering; and now, for the second time, most European and African mortals are asleep.

But here, in this Whirlpool of Words, sleep falls not; the Night spreads her coverlid of Darkness over it in vain.