I mingle with all men, even their judges and their spies, but I cannot yet gain the clew.

I know that she is here.

I know it by an instinct; the breath of my child seems warmer and more familiar.
They peer at me with venomous looks, as I pass through their streets.
With a glance I disarm their malice, and fascinate the basilisks.
Everywhere I see the track and scent the presence of the Ghostly One that dwells on the Threshold, and whose victims are the souls that would ASPIRE, and can only FEAR.

I see its dim shapelessness going before the men of blood, and marshalling their way.

Robespierre passed me with his furtive step.