u can deliver."

The old man began to swell with complacency.

"H-why, really--"

"_He_, Citizen, is truly of your kind--"

"He must be delivered, Professor Frowenfeld--"

"He is a native Louisianian, not only by accident of birth but by
sentiment and intention," said Frowenfeld.

The old man smiled a benign delight, but the apothecary now had the
upper hand, and would not hear him speak.

"His aspirations," continued the speaker, "his indignations--mount with
his people's. His pulse beats with yours, sir. He is a part of your
circle. He is one of your caste."

Agricola could not be silent.

"Ha-a-a-ah! Joseph, h-h-you make my blood tingle! Speak to the point;
who--"

"I believe him, moreover, Citizen Fusilier, innocent of the charge
laid--"

"H-innocent? H-of course he is innocent, sir! We will _make_ him inno--"

"Ah! Citizen, he is already under sentence of death!"

"_What?_ A Creole under sentence!" Agricola swore a heathen oath, set
his knees apart and grasped his staff by the middle. "Sir, we will
liberate him if we have to overturn the government!"

Frowenfeld shook his head.

"You have got to overturn something stronger than government."

"And pray what--"

"A conventionality," said Frowenfeld, holding the old man's eye.

"Ha, ha! my b-hoy, h-you are right. But we will overturn--eh?"

"I say I fear your engagements will prevent. I hear you take part
to-morrow morning in--"

Agricola suddenly stiffened.

"Professor Frowenfeld, it strikes me, sir, you are taking something of a
liberty."

"For which I ask pardon," exclaimed Frowenfeld. "Then I may not
expect--"

The old man melted again.

"But who is this person in mortal peril?"

Frowenfeld hesitated.

"Citizen Fusilier," he said, looking first down at the floor and then up
into the inquirer's face, "on my assurance that he is not only a native
Creole, but a Grandissime--"

"It is not possible!" exclaimed Agricola.

"--a Grandissime of the purest blood, will you pledge me your aid to
liberate him from his danger, 'right or wrong'?"

"_Will_ I? H-why, certainly! Who is he?"

"Citizen--it is Sylves--"

Agricola sprang up with a thundering oath.

The apothecary put out a pacifying hand, but it was spurned.

"Let me go! How dare you, sir? How dare you, sir?" bellowed Agricola.

He started toward the door, cursing furiously and keeping his eye fixed
on Frowenfeld with a look of rage not unmixed with terror.

"Citizen Fusi