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There was a small, heavily-grated, unglazed window high in the

wall, with a stone screen before it, so that the sky could be

only seen by stooping low and looking up. There was a small

chimney, heavily barred across, a few feet within. There was a

heap of old feathery wood-ashes on the hearth. There was a stool,

and table, and a straw bed. There were the four blackened walls,

and a rusted iron ring in one of them.

"Pass that torch slowly along these walls, that I may see them,"

said Defarge to the turnkey.

The man obeyed, and Defarge followed the light closely with his

eyes.

"Stop!--Look here, Jacques!"

"A. M.!" croaked Jacques Three, as he read greedily.

"Alexandre Manette," said Defarge in his ear, following the

letters with his swart forefinger, deeply engrained with

gunpowder. "And here he wrote 'a poor physician.' And it was he,

without doubt, who scratched a calendar on this stone. What is

that in your hand? A crowbar? Give it me!"