Dian hesitated. He felt so tired of crowds, even of the thought of them, and, like Rosanne, he wanted Pigeon Valley. Still he hesitated. Years before, one wild, cold night, he had been a good distance from Les Vignes and had been coming home late. There had been two roads. One he knew well, for it led straight across the fields to his sheepfold door; the other was over rough stubble, hard and uneven from the early frost. One was easy going and he knew every inch of it, the other was uphill and a long way around. He took the difficult road, and halfway to Les Vignes he had come across one of his lambs, half dead with cold. It had strayed from the others and lay helpless and bleating on the stark hillside. He had lifted it and carried it home under his cloak, warmed and comforted. Something had told him to take the harder path, and the same trust had led him through it. He turned toward the rue Saint Honoré and as soon as he was halfway down the street he found himself one of a wild mob. All about him hoarse voices were screaming. He was carried along with the pressing crowd. * * * * * The baker was angry at Lisle, but he was curious, too. He had never seen any one like him. He had threatened to whip him and yet Lisle had still dared to defy him about the girl, and had spoken with an amazing impudence. Tortot went toward the door. “We’ll see if I can’t rid you of some of that impertinence, my fine fellow,” he snarled. While the baker had been speaking, there was a strange roaring sound somewhere in the distance, and when he finished it seemed to be very near. He paused uncertainly and his face showed white in the growing dusk. He ran over to the door and opened it, and as he did so there was a frightful crashing sound of breaking glass, mad shouting, then another crash, and the sound of a door being broken down. Tortot stood as one dazed, but even in his fright and bewilderment he had presence of mind enough to put himself in front of the door as Lisle made a rush for it. The baker’s broad bulk completely barred the way and he was quick enough to prevent Lisle from ducking under his arm. There was the sound of tables and chairs being overthrown, more shouting, and then the bakery woman’s voice calling lustily: “Charles, Charles, they are destroying us!” It was only for a couple of minutes that Lisle and the baker struggled in the doorway. Then there was a burst of sound from the kitchens, the crash of pewter and iron cooking pans and tins being thrown down, voices harshly singing the “Ça Ira,” and the next instant a tall figure, with ragged red locks about his shoulders, swung himself up the stairway, knocked the baker down with one fierce thrust of his arm, and catching Lisle about the waist, threw him up over his shoulder.