“There’s no sense in bringing in produce these mornings. Wait till spring, I tell the master. Then there will be lettuces and cucumbers, something worth while; though there won’t be so many to enjoy them as last spring, I’m thinking.” The boy spoke significantly, meaning that many of the rich aristocrats, who had enjoyed the market dainties, were now in prison or had already been executed. “Have you served many of the great houses with your master’s produce?” Dian asked the boy. “Bless you, of a surety! There are none of the big houses that I do not know. All of Saint Germain has tasted our lettuces and our young carrots. But that’s all passed now; their day is gone. You look as though you knew a farm well yourself, and as though you did not feel too well acquainted with the city.” He eyed Dian frankly, but not impudently, as he spoke. [Illustration: Dian] “Yes, I am new to the city and I confess that I would be glad of company. Would you not like to stroll about for a while? This does not seem to be a cheerful part of town. Let us take a look elsewhere.” Dian had the rare gift of reading faces. He had felt, when he first saw the farmer’s boy, that he was to be trusted and that he was merry and honest of heart. He was very well content when the boy replied that he would like to go about for a while, and he did not have to report to his master until late afternoon. The two started off together, keeping along the quieter streets, and walking rapidly until they came to the great square facing the one-time Tuileries palace. As they stood there in the great square, they could see the black, sinister guillotine in the distance. Dian shut his eyes and stood for a few moments with his head bowed over his clasped hands. He was giving thanks for the long, warm summer days, the comfort of the stars at night, and the confidence of his sheep as he led them home at sundown. The noise of the city was all about him. Wild voices were singing the “Ça Ira,” the song of the revolution, rough, ragged groups of men and women in scarlet caps jostled past him. There were sounds of pounding and hammering everywhere, and he could hear the clanging of anvils from near-by forges. All over the city, these forges had sprung up over night, to make weapons for the people. They walked the great length of the square and, except for a curious glance or so at Dian because of his red locks and his great stature, no one noticed them at all. They kept in the midst of the crowd going up the rue Saint Honoré. The tri-color ribbons and the gay red caps of the half-starved crowds made splashes of brilliance through the greyness. The farm boy touched Dian’s arm. “Listen,” he said and his voice sank almost to a whisper. “Listen! I hear the roar of the tumbrils. They are coming this way. They almost always do. I have seen them before.” He caught Dian’s arm as he spoke, and Dian could feel him trembling.