[CHAPTER XI.]
THE PRISON GOVERNOR.
Billet looked at the mossgrown edifice, resembling the monsters of fable covered with scales. He counted the embrasures where the great guns might be run out again and the wall-guns which opened their ominous eye to peer through the loopholes. He shook his head, recalling Flesselles' words.
"We'll never get in," he muttered.
"Why never?" questioned a voice at his elbow.
Turning, he saw a wild-looking beggar, in rags, but with eyes glittering like stars in their hollow sockets.
"Because it is hard to take such a pile by main strength."
"Taking the Bastile is not a matter of strength," replied the mendicant, "but an act of faith: have as little faith as a grain of mustard-seed and yet you can overturn a mountain. Believe we can do it, and—Good night, Bastile!"
"Wait a bit," muttered Billet, fumbling for Marat's recommendation in his pocket.