My companion paused a moment to look at me before he began his questioning, and gave me in turn the opportunity to examine him. He was a tall, raw-boned man, evidently of enormous strength. His face was roughened by wind and rain and burned to a deep red by the sun. A ferocious mustache shaded mouth and chin, and his eyes gleamed behind their bushy brows like those of a beast in ambush. His hair was streaked with gray, but I judged not so much from age,--for his whole being was instinct with fire and vigor,--as from the appalling scenes in which he had played a part. He embodied for me at that moment the very spirit of the Revolution, irate, implacable, but with a certain rude sense of honor and of justice and a confused belief that its cause was in some way bound up with human rights and human progress. “Come, citizen,” he began at last, “your name?” “Jean Tavernay,” I answered, deeming it wise to omit the preposition. “Your home?” “Near Beaufort.” “Your destination?” “Poitiers.” “Your business?” I hesitated. “A private matter,” I said finally. He frowned fiercely. “The Republic has the right to know!” he said, in a formidable voice. “This is not a thing which in any way concerns the Republic. It concerns only myself.” “That is for me to judge. Besides, the business of the Republic is that of each of its citizens. Will you answer?” I have,--I may as well confess at once what the reader must soon discover,--concealed under an exterior the most ordinary, a vein of obstinacy which has often impelled me to deeds the most foolish. It was so now. A hesitancy which had its origin in boyish shyness crystallized suddenly into sullen determination. “Come,” repeated my questioner even more fiercely, “will you answer?” “No!” I said bluntly, and nerved myself for what might follow. Then I began to suspect that this dragon, like that of Rouen, was ferocious only in appearance, for he contented himself with gnawing at his mustache and looking at me darkly. “How am I to know you are not a _ci-devant_?” he rasped out at last. “A traitor, a conspirator against the Nation, a scoundrel upon whose head a price has been set?” “Merely by looking at me, my friend,” I retorted, and smiled at the thought that I, whose whole life had passed peacefully at Beaufort, could be any of those things. I cannot say that he actually smiled in answer, but his face certainly relaxed. “When did you leave Beaufort?” he questioned, in a milder tone. “Yesterday morning.” “And last night?” “I spent at Tours.” “What inn?” “The Beau Visage.” “The landlord’s name?” “Triboulet.” “His appearance?” “Short and fat, a red face, eyes like gimlets, and a head as bald as an egg.” My captor nodded. “That’s Triboulet,” he said. “A fine fellow.” “Yes,” I agreed; “and his wife----” My captor smacked his lips. “She made you an omelet?” “The best I ever ate.” “She is famous for that,” he said, and looked at me again, pulling pensively at his mustache.