Defarge and the three glanced darkly at one another. The looks of all of them were dark，repressed，and revengeful，as they listened to the countryman's story；the manner of all of them，while it was secret，was authoritative too.They had the air of a rough tribunal；Jacques One and Two sitting on the old pallet-bed，each with his chin resting on his hand，and his eyes intent on the road-mender；Jacques Three，equally intent，on one knee behind them，with his agitated hand always gliding over the network of fine nerves about his mouth and nose；Defarge standing between them and the narrator，whom he had stationed in the light of the window，by turns looking from him to them，and from them to him.
'Go on，Jacques，'said Defarge.
'He remains up there in his iron cage some days. The villagelooks at him by stealth，for it is afraid.But always looks up，from a distance，at the prison on the crag；and in the evening，when the work of the day is achieved and it assembles to gossip at the fountain，all faces are turned towards the prison.Formerly，they were turned towards the posting-house；now，they turned towards the prison.They whisper at the fountain，that although condemned to death he will not be executed；they say that petitions have been presented in Paris，showing that he was enraged and made mad by the death of his child；they say that a petition has been presented to the King himself.What do I know？It is possible.Perhaps yes，perhaps no.'
'Listen then，Jacques，'Number One of that name sternly interposed.'Know that a petition was presented to the King and Queen. All here，yourself excepted，saw the King take it，in his carriage in the street，sitting beside the Queen.It is Defarge whom you see here，who，at the hazard of his life，darted out before the horses，with the petition in his hand.'
'And once again listen，Jacques！'said the kneeling Number Three：his fingers ever wandering over and over those fine nerves，with a strikingly greedy air，as if he hungered for something—that was neither food nor drink；'the guard，horse and foot，surrounded the petitioner，and struck him blows. You hear？'
'I hear，messieurs.'
'Go on then，'said Defarge.
'Again；on the other hand，they whisper at the fountain，'resumed the countryman，'that he is brought down into our country to be executed on the spot，and that he will very certainly be executed. They even whisper that because he has slain Monseigneur，and because Monseigneur was the father of histenants—serfs—what you will—he will be executed as a parricide.One old man says at the fountain，that his right hand，armed with the knife，will be burnt off before his face；that，into wounds which will be made in his arms，his breast，and his legs，there will be poured boiling oil，melted lead，hot resin，wax，and sulphur；finally，that he will be torn limb from limb by four strong horses.That old man says，all this was actually done to a prisoner who made an attempt on the life of the late King，Louis Fifteen.But how do I know if he lies？I am not a scholar.'
'Listen once again then，Jacques！'said the man with the restless hand and the craving air.'The name of that prisoner was Damiens，and it was all done in open day，in the open streets of this city of Paris；and nothing was more noticed in the vast concourse that saw it done，than the crowd of ladies of quality and fashion，who were full of eager attention to the last—to the last. Jacques，prolonged until nightfall，when he had lost two legs and an arm，and still breathed！And it was done—why，how old are you？'
'Thirty-five，'said the mender of roads，who looked sixty.
'It was done when you were more than ten years old；you might have seen it.'
'Enough！'said Defarge，with grim impatience.'Long live the Devil！Go on.'
'Well！Some whisper this，some whisper that；they speak of nothing else；even the fountain appears to fall to that tune. At length，on Sunday night when all the village is asleep，come soldiers，winding down from the prison，and their guns ring on the stones of the little street.Workmen dig，workmen hammer，soldiers laugh and sing；in the morning，by the fountain，there israised a gallows forty feet high，poisoning the water.'
The mender of roads looked through rather than at the low ceiling，and pointed as if he saw the gallows somewhere in the sky.
'All work is stopped，all assemble there，nobody leads the cows out，the cows are there with the rest. At midday，the roll of drums.Soldiers have marched into the prison in the night，and he is in the midst of many soldiers.He is bound as before，and in his mouth there is a gag—tied so，with a tight string，making him look almost as if he laughed.'He suggested it，by creasing his face with his two thumbs，from the corners of his mouth to his ears.'On the top of the gallows is fixed the knife，blade upwards，with its point in the air.He is hanged there forty feet high—and is left hanging，poisoning the water.'
They looked at one another，as he used his blue cap to wipe his face，on which the perspiration had started afresh while he recalled the spectacle.
'It is frightful，messieurs. How can the women and the children draw water！Who can gossip of an evening，under that shadow！Under it，have I said？When I left the village，Monday evening as the sun was going to bed，and looked back from the hill，the shadow struck across the church，across the mill，across the prison—seemed to strike across the earth，messieurs，to where the sky rests upon it！'
The hungry man gnawed one of his fingers as he looked at the other three，and his finger quivered with the craving that was on him.
'That's all，messieurs. I left at sunset（as I had been warned to do），and I walked on，that night and half next day，until I met（as I was warned I should）this comrade.With him，I came on，nowriding and now walking，through the rest of yesterday and through last night.And here you see me！'
After a gloomy silence，the first Jacques said，'Good！You have acted and recounted faithfully. Will you wait for us a little，outside the door？'