'Thank ye，my dear. The precious child is safe in bed？'
'And sleeping soundly.'
'That's right；all safe and well！I don't know why anything should be otherwise than safe and well here，thank God；but I have been so put out all day，and I am not as young as I was！My tea，my dear！Thank ye. Now，come and take your place in the circle，and let us sit quiet，and hear the echoes about which you have your theory.'
'Not a theory；it was a fancy.'
'A fancy，then，my wise pet，'said Mr. Lorry，patting her hand.'They are very numerous and very loud，though，are they not？Only hear them！'
Headlong，mad，and dangerous footsteps to force their way intoanybody's life，footsteps not easily made clean again if once stained red，the footsteps raging in Saint Antoine afar off，as the little circle sat in the dark London window.
Saint Antoine had been，that morning，a vast dusky mass of scarecrows heaving to and fro，with frequent gleams of light above the billowy heads，where steel blades and bayonets shone in the sun. A tremendous roar arose from the throat of Saint Antoine，and a forest of naked arms struggled in the air like shrivelled branches of trees in a winter wind；all the fingers convulsively clutching at every weapon or semblance of a weapon that was thrown up from the depths below，no matter how far off.
Who gave them out，whence they last came，where they began，through what agency they crookedly quivered and jerked，scores at a time，over the heads of the crowd，like a kind of lightning，no eye in the throng could have told；but，muskets were being distributed—so were cartridges，powder and ball，bars of iron and wood，knives，axes，pikes，every weapon that distracted ingenuity could discover or devise. People who could lay hold of nothing else，set themselves with bleeding hands to force stones and bricks out of their places in walls.Every pulse and heart in Saint Antoine was on high-fever strain and at high-fever heat.Every living creature there held life as of no account，and was demented with a passionate readiness to sacrifice it.
As a whirlpool of boiling waters has a centre point，so，all this raging circled round Defarge's wine-shop，and every human drop in the caldron had a tendency to be sucked towards the vortex where Defarge himself，already begrimed with gunpowder and sweat，issued orders，issued arms，thrust this man back，dragged this man forward，disarmed one to arm another，laboured andstrove in the thickest of the uproar.
'Keep near to me，Jacques Three，'cried Defarge；'and do you，Jacques One and Two，separate and put yourselves at the head of as many of these patriots as you can. Where is my wife？'
'Eh，well！Here you see me！'said madame，composed as ever，but not knitting today. Madame's resolute right hand was occupied with an axe，in place of the usual softer implements，and in her girdle were a pistol and a cruel knife.
'Where do you go，my wife？'
'I go，'said madame，'with you at present. You shall see me at the head of women，by-and-by.'
'Come then！'cried Defarge，in a resounding voice.'Patriots and friends，we are ready！The Bastille！'
With a roar that sounded as if all the breath in France had been shaped into the detested word，the living sea rose，wave on wave，depth on depth，and overflowed the city to that point. Alarm-bells ringing，drums beating，the sea raging and thundering on its new beach，the attack begun.
Deep ditches，double drawbridge，massive stone walls，eight great towers，cannon，muskets，fire and smoke. Through the fire and through the smoke—in the fire and in the smoke，for the sea cast him up and against a cannon，and on the instant he became a cannonier—Defarge of the wine-shop worked like a manful soldier，two fierce hours.
Deep ditch，single drawbridge，massive stone walls，eight great towers，cannon，muskets，fire and smoke. One drawbridge down！'Work，comrades all，work！Work，Jacques One，Jacques Two，Jacques One Thousand，Jacques Two Thousand，Jacques Five-and Twenty Thousand；in the name of all the Angels or theDevils—which you prefer—work！'Thus Defarge of the wine-shop，still at his gun，which had long grown hot.
'To me，women！'cried madame his wife，'What！We can kill as well as the men when the place is taken！'And to her，with a shrill thirsty cry，trooping women variously armed，but all armed alike in hunger and revenge.
Cannon，muskets，fire and smoke；but still the deep ditch，the single drawbridge，the massive stone walls，and the eight great towers. Slight displacements of the raging sea，made by the falling wounded.Flashing weapons，blazing torches，smoking waggon-loads of wet straw，hard work at neighbouring barricades in all directions，shrieks，volleys，execrations，bravery without stint，boom smash and rattle，and the furious sounding of the living sea；but，still the deep ditch，and the single drawbridge，and the massive stone walls，and the eight great towers，and still Defarge of the wine-shop at his gun，grown doubly hot by the service of four fierce hours.
A white flag from within the fortress，and a parley—this dimly perceptible through the raging storm，nothing audible in it—suddenly the sea rose immeasurably，wider and higher，and swept Defarge of the wine-shop over the lowered drawbridge，past the massive stone outer walls，in among the eight great towers surrendered！
So resistless was the force of the ocean bearing him on，that even to draw his breath or turn his head was as impracticable as if he had been struggling in the surf at the South Sea，until he was landed in the outer courtyard of the Bastille. There，against an angle of a wall，he made a struggle to look about him.Jacques Three was nearly at his side；Madame Defarge，still heading someof her women，was visible in the inner distance，and her knife was in her hand.Everywhere was tumult，exultation，deafening and maniacal bewilderment，astounding noise，yet furious dumb-show.
'The Prisoners！'
'The Records！'
'The secret cells！'
'The instruments of torture！'
'The Prisoners！'
