\"Youwillsee。？Look。？Theprisonerisreturningfromchapel。\"
Andtheysaw，bytheredflashesoflightningagainstthevioletfogwhichthewindstampeduponthebank—wardsky，theysawpassgravely，atsixpacesbehindthegovernor，amanclothedinblackandmaskedbyavizorofpolishedsteel，solderedtoahelmetofthesamenature，whichaltogetherenvelopedthewholeofhishead。？Thefireoftheheavenscastredreflectionsonthepolishedsurface，andthesereflections，flyingoffcapriciously，seemedtobeangrylookslaunchedbytheunfortunate，insteadofimprecations。？Inthemiddleofthegallery，theprisonerstoppedforamoment，tocontemplatetheinfinitehorizon，torespirethesulphurousperfumesofthetempest，todrinkinthirstilythehotrain，andtobreatheasighresemblingasmotheredgroan。
\"Comeon，monsieur，\"saidSaint—Mars，sharply，totheprisoner，forhealreadybecameuneasyatseeinghimlooksolongbeyondthewalls。？\"Monsieur，comeon！\"
\"Saymonseigneur！\"criedAthos，fromhiscorner，withavoicesosolemnandterrible，thatthegovernortrembledfromheadtofoot。？Athosinsisteduponrespectbeingpaidtofallenmajesty。？Theprisonerturnedround。
\"Whospoke？\"askedSaint—Mars。