The only living persons were a few women, who had seated themselves on one of the benches in front of the instrument, evidently determined on a good view of to-morrow's spectacle.
I retreated to my hiding-place with a shudder, glad I was too far away to overhear their talk.
But if I heard not theirs, I heard, oddly enough, another conversation, so near that had it been intended for my ears it could not have taken place in a better spot.
One of the speakers, by his voice, was an Englishman, of more than middle age; the other, a woman, who also spoke English, but with a foreign accent.
This is what I heard, and you may guess how much of it I comprehended:-- "No news yet ?" said the old man anxiously.
"None.

I expected to hear before this." "Who is the messenger ?" "A trusty servant of madame's, and an Irishman." "So much the worse if he is caught." There was a pause.

Then the old man inquired,-- "What hope is there for Sillery ?" "Absolutely none.

He is as good as guillotined already." "Has Edward no influence then ?" "Not now.

Duport is no longer a man, but a machine--deadly, mysterious, as yonder guillotine.