"You may rob your master," he said, in effect; "defraud him of _banalité_, _bardage_ and those other few taxes necessary to his dignity and position; but you can't defraud _Me_!" Whereupon he proceeded to wrest what he wanted from the bad peasant by force--and the aid of the broomstick!--accompanying the rat-a-tat with a well-rhymed homily on what would certainly happen to every peasant who sought to deprive his lord of feudal rights. At this point a growing restiveness on the part of the audience found resentful expression. "That for your devil's stick!" "To the devil with the devil!" "Down with the devil!" The cry, once started, was not easy to stop; men in liquor and ripe for mischief repeated it; in vain the mountebank pleaded: "My poor dolls! My poor theater!" Unceremoniously they tumbled it and him over; a few, who had seen nothing out of the ordinary in the little play took his part; words were exchanged for blows, with many fighting for the sake of fighting, when into the center of this, the real stage, appeared soldiers. "What does it mean?" Impressive in gold adornment and conscious authority, the commandant himself came down the steps. "Who dares make riot on a day consecrated to the holy relics? But you shall pay!" as the soldiers separated the belligerents. "Take those men into custody and--who is this fellow?" turning to the mountebank, a mournful figure above the wreckage of his theater and poor puppets scattered, haphazard, like victims of some untoward disaster. "It was his play that started the trouble," said one of the officers. "_Diable!_" the commandant frowned. "What have you to say for yourself?" "I," began the mountebank, "I--" he repeated, when courage and words alike seemed to fail him. The commandant made a gesture. "Up with him! To the top of the Mount!" "No, no!" At once the fellow's voice came back to him. "Don't take me there, into the terrible Mount! Don't lock me up!" "Don't lock him up!" repeated some one in the crowd, moved apparently by the sight of his distress. "It wasn't his fault!" "No; it wasn't his fault!" said others. "Eh?" Wheeling sharply, the commandant gazed; at the lowering faces that dared question his authority; then at his own soldiers. On the beach he might not have felt so secure, but here, where twenty, well-armed, could defend a pass and a mob batter their heads in vain against walls, he could well afford a confident front. "Up with you!" he cried sternly and gave the mountebank a contemptuous thrust. For the first time the man's apathy seemed to desert him; his arm shot back like lightning, but almost at once fell to his side, while an expression, apologetically abject, as if to atone for that momentary fierce impulse, overspread his dull visage. "Oh, I'll go," he said in accents servile. And proceeded hurriedly to gather up the remains of his theater and dolls. "I'm willing to go." CHAPTER XVII THE MOUNTEBANK AND THE HUNCHBACK