CHAPTER XXII: Not Death.
Two days of agonizing suspense, of alternate hope and despair, had told heavily on Marguerite Blakeney.
Her courage was still indomitable, her purpose firm and her faith secure, but she was without the slightest vestige of news, entirely shut off from the outside world, left to conjecture, to scheme, to expect and to despond alone.
The Abbe Foucquet had tried in his gentle way to be of comfort to her, and she in her turn did her very best not to render his position more cruel than it already was.
A message came to him twice during those forty-eight hours from Francois and Felicite, a little note scribbled by the boy, or a token sent by the blind girl, to tell the Abbe that the children were safe and well, that they would be safe and well so long as the Citizeness with the name unknown remained closely guarded by him in room No.

6.
When these messages came, the old man would sigh and murmur something about the good God: and hope, which perhaps had faintly risen in Marguerite's heart within the last hour or so, would once more sink back into the abyss of uttermost despair.
Outside the monotonous walk of the sentry sounded like the perpetual thud of a hammer beating upon her bruised temples.
"What's to be done?
My God?
what's to be done ?" Where was Percy now?
"How to reach him!...

Oh, God! grant me light!" The one real terror which she felt was that she would go mad.

Nay! that she was in a measure mad already.

For hours now,--or was it days ?...