“The alphabet,” he said, “of which B shall be designated the penetration of disguises. Coach-drivers, colporteurs, pedlars--oh, one may happen upon the cloven hoof amongst them all.” I laughed, with a fine affectation of contempt. This mummy at the feast---- There was a sound in the room. I turned my head. The little _aubergiste_ stood at the door, weeping and wringing her hands. “Monsieur!” she cried, “do not let it be done!” I rose and went to the child. “Tell me,” I said, “what is it?” “Monsieur, the poor man that you captured! they are torturing him in the yard.” I pointed with my hand to a window. Without, all during our meal, had been a confused clatter of voices and the lurid smoke of torches rising about the glass. “Yes,” she sobbed, quite overcome. “It is not right, monsieur. It will bring a curse upon the place.” I ran from the room, my blood on fire. Whatever his offence to me, I had sooner let the rascal go than that he should fall into the hands of drunken patriots. The yard was a paved space scooped from the rear of the house. A well with a windlass pierced it about the middle, and round the low wall of this were seated a dozen red-bonnets, our own four prominent, shouting and quarrelling and voluble as parrots. Broken bottles strewed the ground, and here and there a torch was stuck into the chinks of the stones, informing all with a jumping glare of red. I pushed past two or three frightened onlookers, and rushed out into the open. “Where is he?” I cried in a heat. “What the devil! am I not to pass judgment on my own!” A moment’s silence fell. The faces of all were turned up to me, scowling and furious. In the pause a pitiful voice came booming and wailing up from the very bowels of the well itself. “_Merci!_ messieurs, _merci!_ and I will conduct you to the treasure!” I wore a sword, and I drew it and sprang to the well-mouth. “God in heaven!” I cried, “what are you doing with him down there?” Several had risen by this, and were set at me, snarling like dogs. “The man is forfeit to the law!” they yelped. “That is for the law to decide.” “The people are the law. We sit here to condemn him while he cools his heels.” “Send monsieur to fetch his friend up!” cried Lacombe’s voice over their heads. “He will be dainty to wash his white fingers after a meal!” There were cries of “Aristocrat!” Possibly they would have put the brute’s suggestion into effect--for a tipsy patriot has no bowels--had not Crépin at that moment run into the yard. I informed him of the situation in a word, as he joined me by the well-side.