tern to guide him through the obscure streets of Quiquendone, which Doctor Ox had not yet lighted. It was a dark October night, and a light fog overshadowed the town.
Niklausse's preparations for departure consumed at least a quarter of an hour; for after having lighted his lantern, he had to put on his big cow-skin socks and his sheep-skin gloves: then he put up the furred collar of his overcoat, turned the brim of his felt hat down over his eyes, grasped his heavy crow-beaked umbrella, and got ready to start.
When Lotche, however, who was lighting her master, was about to draw the bars of the door, an unexpected noise arose outside.
Yes! Strange as the thing seems, a noise—a real noise, such as the town had certainly not heard since the taking of the donjon by the Spaniards in 1513—a terrible noise, awoke the long dormant echoes of the venerable Van Tricasse mansion.
Someone knocked heavily upon this door, hitherto virgin to brutal touch? Redoubled knocks were given with some blunt implement, probably a knotty stick, wielded by a vigorous arm. With the strokes were mingled cries and calls. These words were distinctly heard:
"Monsieur Van Tricasse! Monsieur the burgomaster! Open, open quickly!"
The burgomaster and the counselor, absolutely astounded, looked at each other speechless.
This passed their comprehension. If the old culverin of the chateau, which had not been used since 1385, had been let off in the parlor, the dwellers in the Van Tricasse mansion would not have been more dumbfounded.
Meanwhile, the blows and cries were redoubled. Lotche, recovering her coolness, had plucked up enough courage to speak.
"Who is there?"
"It is I! I! I!"
"Who are you?"
"The Commissary Passauf!"
The Commissary Passauf! The very man whose office it had been contemplated to suppress for ten years. What had happened, then? Could the Burgundians have invaded Quiquendone, as they did in the fourteenth century? No event of less importance could have so moved Commissary
