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 "There would be a good many headless corpses, if that were so. To their shame be it said. It was abominable. No pride. No decency."

"But the worst will escape," said another. "In private houses. The well-dressed demoiselles!"

"Tuez-les!" cried a woman. "Tuez-les!"

It was a cry for killing, such, as women had screamed when pretty aristocrats were caught by the mobs of the French Revolution.

"My God!" said Brand.

He shouldered his way through the crowd, and I followed him. The people made a gap for us, seeing our uniforms, and desired us to enjoy the joke. What I saw when I came closer was a group of young men holding a limp figure. One of them was brandishing a large pair of scissors, as large as shears. Another held up a tangled mass of red hair.

"Regardez!" he shouted to the crowd, and they cheered and laughed.

I had seen the hair before, as I knew when I saw a girl's face, dead-white, lifeless, as it seemed, and limp against a man's shoulder.

"It is Marthe!" I said to Brand. "Pierre Nesle's sister."

A curious sense of faintness overcame me, and I felt sick.

Brand did not answer me, but I saw his face pale under its tan. He pushed forward through the crowd and I lost sight of him for a few moments. After that I saw him carrying the girl; above the heads of the people I saw her head flopping from side to side horribly, a head with close-cropped hair. They had torn her clothes off her shoulders, which were bleeding.

"Help me," said Brand.

I am not quite clear what happened. I have only a