He began to move towards the yard gate which stood always open, throwing over his shoulder an order to Michel: “Go into the salle. Somebody has left a light in there. They all seem to have gone crazy to-day. Take the lamp into the kitchen and put it out, and see that the door into the yard is shut. I am going to bed.” He passed through the gateway, but he did not penetrate into the yard very far. He stopped to watch Michel obeying the order. Scevola, advancing his head cautiously beyond the pillar of the gate, waited till he had seen Michel open the door of the salle and then bounded out again across the level space, and down the ravine path. It was a matter of less than a minute. His fork was still on his shoulder. His only desire was not to be interfered with, and for the rest he did not care what they all did, what they would think and how they would behave. The fixed idea had taken complete possession of him. He had no plan, but he had a principle on which to act; and that was to get at the lieutenant unawares, and if the fellow died without knowing what hand had struck him, so much the better. Scevola was going to act in the cause of virtue and justice. It was not to be a matter of personal contest at all. Meantime, Michel, having gone into the salle, had discovered Peyrol fast asleep on a table. Though his reverence for Peyrol was unbounded, his simplicity was such that he shook his master by the shoulder as he would have done any common mortal. The rover passed from a state of inertia into a sitting posture so quickly that Michel stepped back a pace and waited to be addressed. But as Peyrol only stared at him, Michel took the initiative in a concise phrase: “He’s at it!” Peyrol did not seem completely awake: “What is it you mean?” he asked. “He is making motions to escape.” Peyrol was wide awake now. He even swung his feet off the table. “Is he? Haven’t you locked the cabin door?” Michel, very frightened, explained that he had never been told to do that. “No?” remarked Peyrol placidly. “I must have forgotten.” But Michel remained agitated, and murmured: “He is escaping.” “That’s all right,” said Peyrol. “What are you fussing about? How far can he escape, do you think?” A slow grin appeared on Michel’s face. “If he tries to scramble over the top of the rocks, he will get a broken neck in no time,” he said. “And he certainly won’t get very far, that’s a fact.” “Well--you see,” said Peyrol. “And he doesn’t seem strong either. He crawled out of the cabin door and got as far as the little water cask and he dipped and dipped into it. It must be half empty by now. After that he got on to his legs. I cleared out ashore directly I heard him move,” he went on in a tone of intense self-approval. “I hid myself behind a rock and watched him.” “Quite right,” observed Peyrol. After that word of commendation, Michel’s face wore a constant grin.