His face, naturally grave and placid, was so marred and stained with mud and blood as to be almost inhuman.

At every step of the way the people hurled dirt and execrations upon him, laughing at his sorry appearance, and goading on one another to further insult.

By sheer force they were carrying him, guillotine, executioner, and all to a great dirt-heap by the river-bank, where only they would permit the deed of death to be performed.
Just as this ghastly procession passed us, a missile, better aimed than most, sent the poor wretch staggering to his knees, and in the rush that followed he was happily hidden from our sight.
But the two poor ladies had seen enough.

Miss Kit's beautiful face was white as marble, her lips quivered, and her hands clenched in a spasm of self-control.

Her mother, less strong, tottered and fell heavily on my arm in a faint.
It was a terrible position just then, for to be suspected of pity for a _condamne_ was an offence which might easily place the sympathiser on the tumbrel beside the victim.