Just as he was about to enter the carriage he saw Master Isnard, the recorder, standing within the embrasure of a door. The man of law seemed quite melancholy over the result of the session. His perfidious designs had miscarried. “Ho! Master Recorder,” cried the baron, half-way up his carriage steps, “do you return soon to Marseilles?” “I return there immediately,” answered he, peevishly. “Ah, well, just say to the Marshal of Vitry that, if I threatened you with my whip it was because you brought from him insulting orders to the Provençal nobility; you see that I am quite willing to appear before the popular tribunal whose decisions I respect. As to the difference of my conduct under the two circumstances, you, recorder, can explain it to the marshal. I shall always resist by force the iniquitous orders of tyrants, sent by a tyrant cardinal, but I shall always respect the rights and privileges of the ancient Provençal communities. The nobility is to the people what the blade is to the hilt. The communities are to us what we are to them; do you understand, you rascal? Tell that to your Vitry.” “Monseigneur, these words--” said the recorder, quickly. But Raimond V., interrupting him, continued: “Tell him, in short, that if I keep my house fortified, it is that I may be useful to the city, as I have been. When the shepherd has no dogs, the flock is soon devoured; and, Manjour, the wolves are not far off.” As he uttered these words, Raimond V. entered his carriage and slowly departed, followed by the prolonged shouts and acclamations of the multitude. The old gentleman, notwithstanding his candour and bluntness of speech, had, with great deftness and a shrewd policy, ranged the populace on his side in the event of a possible collision with the power of the marshal. CHAPTER XVIII. the telescope. After the session, during which, in his function of syndic of the overseers of the port, he had declared the condemnation of Raimond V., the watchman of Cape l’Aigle returned to his sentry-box, temporarily entrusted to the care of the brave Luquin Trinquetaille. Peyrou was sad; the last words of the Baron des Anbiez on the subject of the commander had awakened the most painful memories. But as he ascended the steep fortifications of the promontory, his heart expanded. Too much accustomed to solitude to find enjoyment in the society of men, the watchman was happy only when he was on the summit of his rock, where he listened in sweet meditation to the distant roaring of the sea and the terrible bursts of the tempest. Nothing is more absolute, nothing is more imperious, than the habit of isolation, especially among those who find inexhaustible resources in their own power of observation or in the varied extravagance of their own imagination. It was with a profound feeling of satisfaction that the watchman set foot upon the esplanade of Cape l’Aigle. He approached his sentry-box, and there found the worthy Luquin fast asleep.