The figure of Morin by that time became obvious, in fact, near the door of the tavern, supported by workmen and peasants, while the blood trickled down his cheek, and he limped on one foot, seeming more confused than hurt. The concern of the ladies was extreme; young Willoughby alone remained obstinately cool as the excitement increased; he assumed the chief part with great self-possession, and distinctly imputed the fault to the aggrieved individual, expressing quite as plainly, though in rather indifferent French, his doubts as to the seriousness of the injury. The landlord of the auberge, a beetle-browed man in a striped cowl and white apron, with an air between a cook and a butcher, had hovered behind, looking on with apparent attempts at moderation among the bystanders. “Yet monsieur will scarcely refuse to apologise to M. Morin?” inquired he, thrusting his sinister visage nearer. “If you only hand me your purse, mother,” was Charles’s answer, to Lady Willoughby’s anxiety, “you’ll soon see what’s wanted!” “Monsieur!” exclaimed he, drawing back from the boy’s offer with an offended look, “you insult me!” In the indignant noise which ensued, apologies would have been unavailing; but at the appearance of another gendarme pushing up, Charles Willoughby seated himself, turned his shoulder on the rabble, and contented himself with explaining matters to the official beside him, into whose palm he had easily enough slipped the rejected coin. It produced no apparent increase of deference in the man’s stiff civility; but he exchanged a few prompt words with his comrade, who took out a stump of pencil and a scrap of paper, put the end of the first into his mouth, and rested the latter on the carriage-wheel, looking up imperturbably for further particulars. An authoritative word or two from the other, as he raised his voice, and glanced from the throng to the obstacles in the street, on the other side of which market-drivers from Paris were grumbling, served to restore a degree of order. “Yes, Martin, it will be sufficient,” he loudly observed to his companion, “to take notice of the passports. Attention, then, Martin!” “Monsieur will exhibit the passports,” said the sergeant in the same tone, as he turned again to the carriage. Charles Willoughby looked blank, though he mechanically felt for them in his pocket, and inquired at Jackson, at Mrs Mason, at all the party, looking below the cushions and beneath the seats. It was to no purpose; he had to admit that they were not forthcoming; a gentleman of the party, who would no doubt directly appear, had happened to have them in his pocket. The gendarmes stood up, and looked to each other significantly; the one put up his paper and pencil, with a shrug of his shoulders; the other addressed himself with a rigid air of regret to the carriage.