Immersed in the seething, onlooking crowd, he suddenly heard above the din the distinct rumble of the approaching tumbrel. He knew this was the end, that this was his fault. He hadn't stopped it, but rather aided in this treachery. It was selfish, and now it meant the life of his dearest friend.

He suddenly felt the burning gaze on his face and raised his eyes to meet those of his noble leader. His superior stood quietly in the tumbrel, his blue eyes searching his, as if to ask for what reason he had been betrayed. And then he was gone with the others as the cart approached the center of the square.

The onlooker felt ill. Stumbling backward, he began clawing his way through the cheering masses, those vengeful rogues who now shouted for the death of England's most daring hero. He had to escape this festering mob, for he could bear it no longer. In the distance, the guillotine crashed down on the last head from the tumbrel and that was the end of him: his mentor, his leader, and his friend. The man's vision began to blur as he crumpled to the ground with a cry.

Lord Hastings gasped as he abruptly came to, stretched across the side of his shoddy cot. He sat up quickly, still trembling from the recently departed nightmare.

He glanced sharply about the room. The rising sun struck the rusted bars of the cell window, warm color dripping down the rotting walls and splashing across the dirt floor. Somewhere a swallow sang, unaware of the events the morning brought to the famed Place de la Grève. Hastings breathed a sigh. There were no blue eyes to watch him here.

"A restful slumber, monsieur?" a sneering voice inquired, breaking the transient calm of the cell.

Hastings choked back a cry, whirling to face the thin figure lounging in the shadows of the dusty chamber. The eyes mocked him ruthlessly as a sinister smile curled upon the man's thin lips.

"Monsieur Chauvelin," Hastings returned coldly, seating himself stiffly in the chair opposite the French ambassador.

"Word has reached me that your letter had arrived at the home of Sir Percy," Chauvelin remarked quietly, his eyes glinting in the faint light.

Hastings raised an eyebrow, a smirk playing across his face. "Has it, now?"

His opponent remained unruffled. "You are not to be transferred. But I'm sure you already knew that." Chauvelin suddenly slapped a small, worn note onto the table before him. Hastings froze as his eyes fell upon the paper.

Chauvelin chuckled, the wicked smile still playing upon his lips. "An extra correspondence to the Pimpernel, Hastings? How very foolish of you!"

"What has become of Stanton?" Hastings choked, his eyes still fixed on the crumpled letter.

"I caught the traitor smuggling this note from the prison a few days ago. Why you hoped to send it without my knowledge is remarkable!" His smile broadened. "But then again, prison does take its toll on a man's sensibility, I suppose." He toyed with the paper before him. "As for your friend, he is well taken care of, I assure you."

"You killed him," the Englishman whispered, shutting his eyes against the thought.

"Not yet," Chauvelin said simply, his gleaming gaze still focused on the incredulous prisoner. "But I'm afraid this worsens your situation, my friend. I will not have my plans undermined by your attempted warnings."

"What will you do, Chauvelin? Torture me? You have nothing to learn!"

Chauvelin looked thoughtful. "A different sort of torture, I suppose." He suddenly flashed a villainous grin. "You shall accompany me."

"Accompany you," Hastings repeated mechanically, his body stiffening.

"Why, to the Rue de l'Agnon, of course. You wish to meet your beloved leader, surely?"

Hastings suddenly felt ill. He had tried in vain to warn Percy, and now he would witness his treachery. He would watch those blue eyes question his loyalty and would see the disappointment in the face of the man he had so long revered.

"Stanton. Where is he?" Hastings asked shakily.

The Frenchman gave a bark of laughter, his cold eyes dancing. "He is no friend of yours, I assure you, for I have had him in my employ for many months now."

Chauvelin silently delighted in this revelation. He watched the agony course over the features of the Englishman as the reality of his mistake gripped him.

Hastings' senses reeled. He had unwittingly betrayed the Scarlet Pimpernel, just as he had feared.