"You are Citizen Mercier?" said the guard, holding up his lantern to look at him.
"Yes. This is Citizen Roche; this, Citizen Pinot."
The man raised his lantern and looked into each face in turn.
"Devilish poor traveling companions," whispered Mercier, leaning from his saddle toward the guard; "lustful fellows who get no fun out of their lusts, as merry as death, and as silent."
The guard laughed and raised his lamp to look into Barrington's face again.
"Provincials, eh?"
"Ay, from some corner of France where they breed mutes I fancy," said Mercier.
"They're useful maybe, and if Madame Guillotine eats them presently, what matter? She must have foul food as well as fine. Any fresh news worth the telling?"
"None," Mercier answered.
"Then you may save your breath for your journey. Pass on, citizens."