"Seven—eight—nine!"
At the tenth she relaxed, and her arms wound about the neck of Barabant in the last long embrace, violent with the pang of parting. Suddenly, with a cry of despair, she tore herself from him,—an eleventh name was being read:
"The Citoyen Eugène—"
Something extraordinary had happened; the jailer had stopped in indecision. Nicole, in the agony of her mind, saw but one face—the mocking face of Cramoisin—against an opposite pillar.
"The Citoyen Eugène Franz Cramoisin!"
The sneer dropped out; the face grew livid. On all sides astounded cries went up:
"Cramoisin?"
"Impossible!"
"Cramoisin arrested!"