“Now, look here, Mr. Mayor,” said Jeanne severely, “you utterly fail to grasp the situation in its true light. All these little details may be interesting in themselves, and doubtless the press will take note of them; but they are entirely beside the point. With the muddleheadedness of your officials (which I have frequently remarked upon) I have nothing whatever to do. All I know is, that this young gentleman has been formally handed over to me for execution, with all the necessary legal requirements; and executed he has got to be. When my duty has been performed, you are at liberty to re-open the case if you like; and any ‘little mistake’ that may have occurred through your stupidity you can then rectify at your leisure. Meantime, you’ve no _locus standi_ here at all; in fact, you’ve no business whatever lumbering up my scaffold. So shut up and clear out.” “Now, Jeanne, do be reasonable,” implored the Mayor. “You women are so precise. You never will make any allowance for the necessary margin of error in things.” “If I were to allow the necessary margin for all _your_ errors, Mayor,” replied Jeanne, coolly, “the edition would have to be a large-paper one, and even then the text would stand a poor chance. And now, if you don’t allow me the necessary margin to swing my axe, there may be another ‘little mistake’----” But at this point a hubbub arose at the foot of the scaffold, and Jeanne, leaning over, perceived sundry tall fellows, clad in the livery of the Seigneur, engaged in dispersing the municipal guard by the agency of well-directed kicks, applied with heartiness and anatomical knowledge. A moment later, there strode on to the scaffold, clad in black velvet, and adorned with his gold chain of office, the stately old seneschal of the Château, evidently in a towering passion. “Now, mark my words, you miserable little bladder-o’-lard,” he roared at the Mayor (whose bald head certainly shone provokingly in the morning sun), “see if I don’t take this out of your skin presently!” And he passed on to where the youth was still kneeling, apparently quite absorbed in the view. “My lord,” he said, firmly though respectfully, “your hair-brained folly really passes all bounds. Have you entirely lost your head?” “Faith, nearly,” said the young man, rising and stretching himself. “Is that you, old Thibault? Ow, what a crick I’ve got in my neck! But that view of the valley was really delightful!” “Did you come here simply to admire the view, my lord?” inquired Thibault severely.