And then the troop halted, abreast with them, and the sergeant leading it sent his bawling voice across the common. “Hi, there! Hi!” His tone rang with menace. Every member of the company--and there were some twelve in all--stood at gaze. Pantaloon advanced a step or two, stalking, his head thrown back, his manner that of a King’s Lieutenant. “Now, what the devil’s this?” quoth he, but whether of Fate or Heaven or the sergeant, was not clear. There was a brief colloquy among the horsemen, then they came trotting across the common straight towards the players’ encampment. Andre-Louis had remained standing at the tail of the travelling house. He was still passing the comb through his straggling hair, but mechanically and unconsciously. His mind was all intent upon the advancing troop, his wits alert and gathered together for a leap in whatever direction should be indicated. Still in the distance, but evidently impatient, the sergeant bawled a question. “Who gave you leave to encamp here?” It was a question that reassured Andre-Louis not at all. He was not deceived by it into supposing or even hoping that the business of these men was merely to round up vagrants and trespassers. That was no part of their real duty; it was something done in passing--done, perhaps, in the hope of levying a tax of their own. It was very long odds that they were from Rennes, and that their real business was the hunting down of a young lawyer charged with sedition. Meanwhile Pantaloon was shouting back. “Who gave us leave, do you say? What leave? This is communal land, free to all.” The sergeant laughed unpleasantly, and came on, his troop following. “There is,” said a voice at Pantaloon’s elbow, “no such thing as communal land in the proper sense in all M. de La Tour d’Azyr’s vast domain. This is a terre censive, and his bailiffs collect his dues from all who send their beasts to graze here.” Pantaloon turned to behold at his side Andre-Louis in his shirt-sleeves, and without a neckcloth, the towel still trailing over his left shoulder, a comb in his hand, his hair half dressed. “God of God!” swore Pantaloon. “But it is an ogre, this Marquis de La Tour d’Azyr!” “I have told you already what I think of him,” said Andre-Louis. “As for these fellows you had better let me deal with them. I have experience of their kind.” And without waiting for Pantaloon’s consent, Andre-Louis stepped forward to meet the advancing men of the marechaussee. He had realized that here boldness alone could save him. When a moment later the sergeant pulled up his horse alongside of this half-dressed young man, Andre-Louis combed his hair what time he looked up with a half smile, intended to be friendly, ingenuous, and disarming. In spite of it the sergeant hailed him gruffly: “Are you the leader of this troop of vagabonds?”