“You are a brave fellow!” cried the Marquis, sheathing his sabre; and in a moment the warriors were locked in a brotherly embrace. The effect was electric and instantaneous. “Let us all fraternise!” was the cry; and regulars, nationals, and blouses, rushed into each others’ arms. The union was complete. Jacob and Esau coalesced without the formality of an explanation. Ammunition was handed over by the troops without the slightest scruple, and in return many bottles of _vin ordinaire_ were produced for the refreshment of the military. No man who witnessed that scene could have any doubt as to the final result of the movement. Presently, however, a smart fusillade was heard to the right. The cry arose, “They are assassinating the people! to the barricades! to the barricades!” and the whole multitude swept vehemently forward towards the place of contest. Unfortunately, in my anxiety to behold the rencontre in which my friend bore so distinguished a part, I had pressed a little further forwards than was prudent, and I now found myself in the midst of an infuriated gang of workmen, and urged irresistibly onwards to the nearest barricade. “Thou hast no arms, comrade!” cried a gigantic butcher, who strode beside me armed with an enormous axe; “here—take this;” and he thrust a sabre into my hand; “take this, and strike home for _la Patrie_!” I muttered my acknowledgments for the gift, and tried to look as like a patriot as possible. “_Tête de Robespierre!_” cried another. “This is better than paying taxes! _A bas la Garde Municipale! à bas tous les tyrans!_” “_Tête de Brissot!_” exclaimed I, in return, thinking it no unwise plan to invoke the Manes of some of the earlier heroes. This was a slight mistake. “_Quoi? Girondin?_” cried the butcher, with a ferocious scowl. “_Non; corps de Marat!_” I shouted. “_Bon! embrassez-moi donc, camarade!_” said the butcher, and so we reached the barricade. Here the game was going on in earnest. The barricade had been thrown up hastily and imperfectly, and a considerable body of the Municipal Guard—who, by the way, behaved throughout with much intrepidity—was attempting to dislodge the rioters. In fact, they had almost succeeded. Some ten of the insurgents, who were perched upon the top of the pile, had been shot down, and no one seemed anxious to supply their place on that bad eminence. In vain my friend the butcher waved his axe, and shouted “_En avant!_” A considerable number of voices, indeed, took up the cry, but a remarkable reluctance was exhibited in setting the salutary example. A few minutes more, and the passage would have been cleared; when all of a sudden, from the interior of a cabriolet, which formed a sort of parapet to the embankment, emerged a ghastly figure, streaming with gore, and grasping the _drapeau rouge_. I never was more petrified in my life—there could be no doubt of the man—it was Hutton Bagsby!