Taking the Bastile. Dumas Alexandre

had no more doubts that the rider was after him so that he not only doubled his pace but he dreaded to lose anything by looking behind.

      But the animal, superior to the biped in running, gained on him, and Pitou heard the rider plainly calling him by name.

      Nearly overtaken, still he struggled till the cut of a whip crossed his legs, and a well-known voice thundered:

      "Blame you, you idiot – have you made a vow to founder Younker?"

      The horse's name put an end to the fugitive's irresolution.

      "Oh, I hear Master Billet," he groaned, as he rolled over on his back, exhaustion and the lash having thrown him on the grass.

      Assured of the identity he sat up, while the farmer reined in Younker, streaming with white froth.

      "Oh, dear master," said Pitou, "how kind of you to ride after me. I swear to you that I should come back to the farm late. I got to the end of the double-louis Miss Catherine gave me. But since you have overtaken me, here is the gold, for it is your'n, and let us get back."

      "A thousand devils," swore the yeoman, "we have a lot to do at the farm, I don't think. Where are the sleuth-hounds?"

      "Sleuth hounds?" repeated Pitou, not understanding the nickname for what we call detective police officer's, though it had already entered into the language.

      "Those sneaks in black," continued Billet, "if you can understand that better."

      "Oh, you bet that I did not amuse myself by waiting till they came up."

      "Bravo, dropped them, eh?"

      "Flatter myself I did."

      "Then, if certain what did you keep on running for?"

      "I thought you were their captain who had taken to horse to have me."

      "Come, come you are not such a dunderhead as I thought. As the road is clear, make an effort, get up behind me on the crupper and let us hurry into Dammartin. I will change horses at Neighbor Lefranc's, for Younker is done up, so we can push ahead for Paris."

      "But I do not see what use I shall be there," remonstrated Pitou.

      "But I think the other way. You can serve me there, for you have big fists, and I hold it for a fact that they are going to fall to hitting out at one another in the city."

      Far from charmed by this prospect, the lad was wavering when Billet caught hold of him as of a sack of flour and slung him across the horse.

      Regaining the road, by dint of spur, cudgel and heel, Younker was sent along at so fair a gait that they were in Dammartin in less than half an hour.

      Billet rode in by a lane, not the main road, to Father Lefranc's farm, where he left his man and horse in the yard, to run direct into the kitchen where the master, going out, was buttoning up his leggings.

      "Quick, quick, old mate, your best horse," he hailed him before he recovered from his astonishment.

      "That's Maggie – the good beast is just harnessed. I was going out on her."

      "She'll do; only I give fair warning that I shall break her down most likely."

      "What for, I should like to know?"

      "Because I must be in Paris this evening," said the farmer, making the masonic sign of "Pressing danger."

      "Ride her to death, then," answered Lefranc; "but give me Younker."

      "A bargain."

      "Have a glass of wine?"

      "Two. I have an honest lad with me who is tired with traveling this far. Give him some refreshment."

      In ten minutes the gossips had put away a bottle and Pitou had swallowed a two-pound loaf and a hunk of bacon, nearly all fat. While he was eating, the stableman, a good sort of a soul, rubbed him down with a wisp of hay as if he were a favorite horse. Thus feasted and massaged, Pitou swallowed a glass of wine from a third bottle, emptied with so much velocity that the lad was lucky to get his share.

      Billet got upon Maggie, and Pitou "forked" himself on, though stiff as a pair of compasses.

      The good beast, tickled by the spur, trotted bravely under the double load towards town, without ceasing to flick off the flies with her robust tail, the strong hairs lashing the dust off Pitou's back and stinging his thin calves, from which his stockings had run down.

      CHAPTER VII.

      THE FIRST BLOOD

      Night was thickening as the two travelers reached La Villette, a suburb of Paris. A great flame rose before them. Billet pointed out the ruddy glare.

      "They are troops camping out," said Pitou; "Can't you see that, and they have lighted campfires. Here are some, so that there may naturally be more over yonder."

      Indeed, on attentively looking on the right, Father Billet saw black detachments marching noiselessly in the shadow of St. Denis Plain, horse and foot. Their weapons glimmered in the pale starry light.

      Accustomed to see in the dark from his night roaming in the woods, Pitou pointed out to his master cannon mired to the hubs in the swampy fields.

      "Ho, ho," muttered Billet: "something new is going on here. Look at the sparks yonder. Make haste, my lad."

      "Yes, it is a house a-fire. See the sparks fly," added the younger man.

      Maggie stopped; the rider jumped off upon the pavement and going up to a group of soldiers in blue and yellow uniforms, bivouacking under the roadside trees, asked:

      "Comrades, can you tell me what is the matter in Paris?"

      The soldiers merely replied with some German oaths.

      "What the deuce do they say?" queried Billet of his brother peasant.