Near them lounged a guard of "Patriots," smoking, spitting, and
swearing. Between the patriots and the prisoners sat, on a
rickety stool, the second jailer--a humpbacked man, with an
immense red mustache--finishing his breakfast of broad beans,
which he scooped out of a basin with his knife, and washed down
with copious draughts of wine from a bottle. Carelessly as
Lomaque looked at the shocking scene before him, his quick eyes
contrived to take note of every prisoner's face, and to descry in
a few minutes Trudaine and his sister standing together at the
back of the group.
"Now then, Apollo!" cried the head jailer, addressing his
subordinate by a facetious prison nickname, "don't be all day
starting that trumpery batch of yours. And harkye, friend, I have
leave of absence, on business, at my Section this afternoon. So
it will be your duty to read the list for the guillotine, and
chalk the prisoners' doors before the cart comes to-morrow
morning. 'Ware the bottle, Apollo, to-day; 'ware the bottle, for
fear of accidents with the death-list to-morrow."
"Thirsty July weather, this--eh, citizen?" said Lomaque, leaving
the head jailer, and patting the hunchback in the friendliest
manner on the shoulder. "Why, how you have got your batch huddled
up together this morning! Shall I help you to shove them into
marching order? My time is quite at your disposal.
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