"Ah!" I said. "It is the people who invite me to govern, then, is it? With an inn-keeper and a peasant? And other inn-keepers and peasants, I suppose? To govern! To usurp his Majesty's functions? To supersede his magistrates; to bribe his forces? In a word, friend Doury," I continued suavely, "to commit treason. Treason, you understand?" The inn-keeper did; and he wiped his forehead with a shaking hand, and stood, scared and speechless, looking at me piteously. A second time the blacksmith took it on himself to answer. "Monseigneur," he muttered, drawing his great black hand across his beard. "Buton," I answered suavely, "permit me. For a man who aspires to govern the country, you are too respectful." "You have omitted one thing it is for the Committee to do," the smith answered hoarsely, looking--like a timid, yet sullen, dog--anywhere but in my face. "And that is?" "To protect the Seigneurs." I stared at him, between anger and surprise. This was a new light. After a pause, "From whom?" I said curtly. "Their people," he answered. "Their Butons," I said. "I see. We are to be burned in our beds, are we?" He stood sulkily silent. "Thank you, Buton," I said. "And that is your return for a winter's corn. Thanks! In this world it is profitable to do good!" The man reddened through his tan, and on a sudden looked at me for the first time. "You know that you lie, M. le Vicomte!" he said. "Lie, sirrah?" I cried. "Yes, Monsieur," he answered. "You know that I would die for the seigneur, as much as if the iron collar were round my neck! That before fire touched the house of Saux it should burn me! That I am my lord's man, alive and dead. But, Monseigneur," and, as he continued, he lowered his tone to one of earnestness, striking in a man so rough, "there are abuses, and there must be an end of them. There are tyrants, and they must go. There are men and women and children starving, and there must be an end of that. There is grinding of the faces of the poor, Monseigneur--not here, but everywhere round us--and there must be an end of that. And the poor pay taxes and the rich go free; the poor make the roads, and the rich use them; the poor have no salt, while the King eats gold. To all these things there is now to be an end--quietly, if the seigneurs will--but an end. An end, Monseigneur, though we burn châteaux," he added grimly. CHAPTER VI. A MEETING IN THE ROAD. The unlooked-for eloquence which rang in the blacksmith's words, and the assurance of his tone, no less than this startling disclosure of thoughts with which I had never dreamed of crediting him, or any peasant, took me so aback for a moment that I stood silent. Doury seized the occasion, and struck in. "You see now, M. le Vicomte," he said complacently, "the necessity for such a Committee. The King's peace must be maintained."