Checking the postmaster，who was for turning his horse's head to the yard（the drunken patriot sat composedly in his saddle looking on，with the line round his wrist），Darnay said，as soon as he could make his voice heard：
‘Friends，you deceive yourselves，or you are deceived. I am not a traitor.’
‘He lies！’cried the smith.‘He is a traitor since the decree. His life is forfeit to the people.His cursed life is not his own！’
At that instant when Darnay saw a rush in the eyes of the crowd，which another instant would have brought upon him，the postmaster turned his horse into the yard，the escort rode in close upon his horse's flanks，and the postmaster shut and barred the crazy double gates. The farrier struck a blow upon them with his hammer，and the crowd groaned；but no more was done.
‘What is this decree that the smith spoke of？’Darnay asked the postmaster，when he had thanked him，and stood beside him in the yard.
‘Truly，a decree for selling the property of emigrants.’
‘When passed？’
‘On the fourteenth.’
‘The day I left England！’
‘Everybody says it is but one of several，and that there will be others—if there are not already—banishing all emigrants，and condemning all to death who return. That is what he meant when he said your life was not your own.’
‘But there are no such decrees yet？’
‘What do I know！’said the postmaster，shrugging his shoulders；‘there may be，or there will be. It is all the same.What would you have？’
They rested on some straw in a loft until the middle of the night，and then rode forward again when all the town was asleep. Among the many wild changes observable on familiar things which made this wild ride unreal，not the least was the seeming rarity of sleep.After long and lonely spurring over dreary roads，they would come to a cluster of poor cottages，not steeped in darkness，but all glittering with lights，and would find the people，in a ghostly manner in the dead of the night，circling hand in handround a shrivelled tree of Liberty，or all drawn up together singing a Liberty song.Happily，however，there was sleep in Beauvais that night to help them out of it，and they passed on once more into solitude and loneliness：jingling through the untimely cold and wet，among impoverished fields that had yielded no fruits of the earth that year，diversified by the blackened remains of burnt houses，and by the sudden emergence from ambuscade，and sharp reining up across their way，of patriot patrols on the watch on all the roads.
Daylight at last found them before the wall of Paris. The barrier was closed and strongly guarded when they rode up to it.
‘Where are the papers of this prisoner？’demanded a resolute-looking man in authority，who was summoned out by the guard.
Naturally struck by the disagreeable word，Charles Darnay requested the speaker to take notice that he was a free traveller and French citizen，in charge of an escort which the disturbed state of the country had imposed upon him，and which he had paid for.
‘Where，’repeated the same personage，without taking any heed of him whatever，‘are the papers of this prisoner？’
The drunken patriot had them in his cap，and produced them. Casting his eyes over Gabelle's letter，the same personage in authority showed some disorder and surprise and looked at Darnay with a close attention.
He left escort and escorted without saying a word，however，and went into the guard-room；meanwhile they sat upon their horses outside the gate. Looking about him while in this state of suspense，Charles Darnay observed that the gate was held by a mixed guard of soldiers and patriots，the latter far outnumberingthe former；and that while ingress into the city for peasants'carts bringing in supplies，and for similar traffic and traffickers，was easy enough，egress，even for the homeliest people，was very difficult.A numerous medley of men and women，not to mention beasts and vehicles of various sorts，was waiting to issue forth；but the previous identification was so strict，that they filtered through the barrier very slowly.Some of these people knew their turn for examination to be so far off，that they lay down on the ground to sleep or smoke，while others talked together，or loitered about.The red cap and tricolour cockade were universal，both among men and women.
When he had sat in his saddle some half-hour，taking note of these things，Darnay found himself confronted by the same man in authority，who directed the guard to open the barrier. Then he delivered to the escort，drunk and sober，a receipt for the escorted and requested him to dismount.He did so，and the two patriots，leading his tired horse，turned and rode away without entering the city.
He accompanied his conductor into a guard-room，smelling of common wine and tobacco，where certain soldiers and patriots，asleep and awake，drunk and sober，and in various neutral states between sleeping and waking，drunkenness and sobriety，were standing and lying about. The light in the guardhouse，half derived from the waning oil lamps of the night，and half from the overcast day，was in a correspondingly uncertain condition.Some registers were lying open on a desk，and an officer of a coarse，dark aspect，presided over these.
‘Citizen Defarge，’said he to Darnay's conductor，as he took a slip of paper to write on.‘Is this the emigrant Evremonde？’
‘This is the man.’
‘Your age，Evremonde？’
‘Thirty-seven.’
‘Married，Evremonde？’
‘Yes.’
‘Where married？’
‘In England.’
‘Without doubt. Where is your wife，Evremonde？’
‘In England.’
‘Without doubt. You are consigned，Evremonde，to the prison of La Force.’
‘Just Heaven！’exclaimed Darnay.‘Under what law，and for what offence？’
The officer looked up from his slip of paper for a moment.
‘We have new laws，Evremonde，and new offences，since you were here.’He said it with a hard smile，and went on writing.