But his eyes never wandered for long away from the gate whence Percy must come now at any moment--now or not at all.
At what precise moment the awful doubt took birth in his mind the young man could not afterwards have said.

Perhaps it was when he heard the roll of drums proclaiming the closing of the gates, and witnessed the changing of the guard.
Percy had not come.

He could not come now, and he (Armand) would have the night to face without news of Jeanne.

Something, of course, had detained Percy; perhaps he had been unable to get definite information about Jeanne; perhaps the information which he had obtained was too terrible to communicate.
If only Sir Andrew Ffoulkes had been there, and Armand had had some one to talk to, perhaps then he would have found sufficient strength of mind to wait with outward patience, even though his nerves were on the rack.
Darkness closed in around him, and with the darkness came the full return of the phantoms that had assailed him in the house of the Square du Roule when first he had heard of Jeanne's arrest.

The open place facing the gate had transformed itself into the Place de la Revolution, the tall rough post that held a flickering oil lamp had become the gaunt arm of the guillotine, the feeble light of the lamp was the knife that gleamed with the reflection of a crimson light.
And Armand saw himself, as in a vision, one of a vast and noisy throng--they were all pressing round him so that he could not move; they were brandishing caps and tricolour flags, also pitchforks and scythes.
He had seen such a crowd four years ago rushing towards the Bastille.
Now they were all assembled here around him and around the guillotine.
Suddenly a distant rattle caught his subconscious ear: the rattle of wheels on rough cobble-stones.