Up the Mount with shambling step, head down-bent and the same stupid expression on his face, the mountebank went docilely, though not silently. To one of the soldiers at his side he spoke often, voicing that dull apprehension he had manifested when first ordered into custody. "Do you think they'll put me in a dungeon?" "Dungeon, indeed!" the man answered not ill-naturedly. "For such as you! No, no! They'll keep the oubliettes, calottes, and all the dark holes for people of consequence--traitors, or your fine gentry consigned by _lettres de cachet_." "Then what do you think they _will_ do with me?" "Wait, and find out!" returned the soldier roughly, and the mountebank spoke no more for some time; held his head lower, until, regarding him, his guardian must needs laugh. "Here's a craven-hearted fellow! Well, if you really want to know, they'll probably lock you up for the night with the rest of rag-tag," indicating the other prisoners, a short distance ahead, "in the cellar, or almonry, or _auberge des voleurs_; and in the morning, if you're lucky and the Governor has time to attend to such as you, it may be you'll escape with a few stripes and a warning." "The _auberge des voleurs_!--the thieves' inn!" said the man. "What is that?" "Bah! You want to know too much! If now your legs only moved as fast as your tongue--" And the speaker completed the sentence with a significant jog on the other's shoulder. Whereupon the mountebank quickened his footsteps, once more ceased his questioning. It was the soldier who had not yet spoken, but who had been pondering a good deal on the way up, who next broke the silence. "How did it end, Monsieur Mountebank?--the scene with the devil, I mean." The man who had begun to breathe hard, as one not accustomed to climbing, or wearied by a long pilgrimage to the Mount, at the question ventured to stop and rest, with a hand on the granite balustrade of the little platform they had just reached. "In the death of the peasant, and a comic chorus of frogs," he answered. "A comic chorus!" said the soldier. "That must be very amusing." "It is," the mountebank said, at the same time studying, from where he stood, different parts of the Mount with cautious, sidelong looks; "but my poor frogs!--all torn! trampled!" "Well, well!" said the other not unkindly. "You can mend them when you get out." "'_When_!' If I only knew when that would be! What if I should have to stay here like some of the others?--_pour être oublié_!--to be forgotten?" "If you don't get on faster," said the soldier who had first spoken, "you won't be buried alive for some time to come, at least!" "Pardon!" muttered the mountebank. "The hill--it is very steep." "You look strong enough to climb a dozen hills, and if you're holding back for a chance to escape--" "No, no!" protested the man. "I had no thought--do I not know that if I tried, your sword--" "Quite right. I'd--"