He started as if shot, saying, "Pardon, monsieur," evidently taking me for one of the family; a mistake which I favored by knocking at the door. As I was in deep shadow he did not recognize me, but the moonlight fell full on his face, and I saw it was Martin Prunevaux. I felt exceedingly inclined to fall on him and beat him for daring to tune his wretched pipes under Madeleine's window; but a second thought assured me that Gabrielle must be his object; the more so that I was sure I saw her shadow (which was shorter than her sister's) fall on the curtain, and I could even fancy her making merry behind it. Still, I liked not such a fellow to come prowling about either of the sisters. I stood my ground, that I might not be guilty of a runaway knock, and when Alice came to the door I made a bungling speech and said, "Oh, I suppose the family are all gone to bed. I am late tonight." She said, "They are so, sir," and looked surprised. I said, "There was a street musician of some sort before the house when I came up. I think I have chased him away." She said, "All the better, sir; we are much obliged to you; we never encourage such people." When I rallied Madeleine, next day, on having been serenaded, tears sprang into her eyes, and she assured me it was not her fault, adding that she feared Gabrielle, in her thoughtlessness, must have given some encouragement to a presumptuous young man. "However, when my father returns, he will take measures," she added, "to prevent our being further troubled with him." Monsieur Bourdinave was at this time traveling on business. The sisters spent that evening at our house as was not unusual. On these occasions we often sang hymns; and I had just set the tune of "Chantez de Dieu le renom"-- "Chantez de Dieu le renom, Vous serviteurs du Seigneur! Venez pour lui faire honneur, Vous qui avez eu ce don"-- and was lifting up my voice on high, followed by the sweet treble of the girls, when a shower of stones rattled against the casement, and a flint passed close to Madeleine and hit my father on the cheekbone. Hot with anger, I rushed into the street, and found a group of unmannerly fellows outside, who, instead of taking to their heels, gathered round me with defiant looks. "What is the meaning of this?" cried I in anger. "What is the meaning of your disturbing the neighborhood with your uproar?" cried one of them, saucily. "Uproar! We were singing to the praise and glory of God. Do you know that you have hurt my father?" "We neither know nor care; and if you don't keep a quiet tongue in your head, will slit it as soon as not." "Come in, son, come in," said my father, whose cheek was covered with blood. "As much as lieth in you, live peaceably with all men"--drawing me indoors as he spoke.