and herself had provided her uncle with a sum of money. But Pascal had not forgiven Dauban, and learning when he and his master were to be released, had whispered a word to Babillon which had results.
As the two men reached the farther end of the market-place, where it narrowed into the street leading to the city gate, they found the press of people so great that no more than a walking pace was possible; and just at that moment they were recognized. Cries and hooting, coarse jests and gibes, took the place of smiles and cheers; clenched fists were raised in menace, as the people closed round the horses, rough hands being laid on the bridles.
De Proballe scowled in anger, and when one man seized the bridle of his horse and jeered at him to his face, he was foolhardy enough in his rage to raise his whip and strike the man across the mouth.
It was the spark to the tinder, and the flame burst out directly. In a moment he and Dauban were torn from their horses and jostled and shouldered and thrust from hand to hand, in the midst of a rough but not over ill-tempered crowd.
Babillon was close at hand, and himself raised the cry of "No violence on such a day as this. No violence." And the cry was caught up by the people, and followed by bursts of thunderous jeering laughter at the sour looks and angry faces of the two men. It was rough jesting, however; and just when the people were tiring of it and the pair were getting back to their horses, a cry was raised by some one of "The pond, the pond;" and this, too, swelled into a roar.
Dauban was seized first by half a dozen stalwart fellows, and, writhing, struggling and kicking in futile resistance, was borne along and tossed into the middle of the pond which was near. He emerged a minute later, a shivering, soaked, half-drowned and all-bedraggled
