"Ten thousand devils!" he roared.
"On no account allow these people to go through," continued the officer.
"Keep their passports. Detain them!… Understand?"
Bibot was still gasping for breath even whilst the officer, ordering a quick "Turn!" reeled his horse round, ready to gallop away as far as he had come.
"I am for the St. Denis Gate—Grosjean is on guard there!" he shouted.
"Same orders all round the city. No one to leave the gates!…
Understand?"
His troopers fell in. The next moment he would be gone, and those cursed aristocrats well in safety's way.
"Citizen Captain!"
The hoarse shout at last contrived to escape Bibot's parched throat. As if involuntarily, the officer drew rein once more.
"What is it? Quick!—I've no time. That confounded Englishman may be at the St. Denis Gate even now!"
"Citizen Captain," gasped Bibot, his breath coming and going like that of a man fighting for his life. "Here!… at this gate!… not half an hour ago … six men … carriers … market gardeners … I seemed to know their faces…."
"Yes! yes! market gardener's carriers," exclaimed the officer gleefully, "aristocrats all of them … and that d—d Scarlet Pimpernel. You've got them? You've detained them?… Where are they?… Speak, man, in the name of hell!…"