lier," said the apothecary, following him with one palm
uplifted, as if that would ward off his abuse, "don't go! I adjure you,
don't go! Remember your pledge, Citizen Fusilier!"

Agricola did not pause a moment; but when he had swung the door
violently open the way was still obstructed. The painter of "Louisiana
refusing to enter the Union" stood before him, his head elevated
loftily, one foot set forward and his arm extended like a tragedian's.

"Stan' bag-sah!"

"Let me pass! Let me pass, or I will kill you!"

Mr. Innerarity smote his bosom and tossed his hand aloft.

"Kill me-firse an' pass aftah!"

"Citizen Fusilier," said Frowenfeld, "I beg you to hear me."

"Go away! Go away!"

The old man drew back from the door and stood in the corner against the
book-shelves as if all the horrors of the last night's dreams had taken
bodily shape in the person of the apothecary. He trembled and stammered:

"Ke--keep off! Keep off! My God! Raoul, he has insulted me!" He made a
miserable show of drawing a weapon. "No man may insult me and live! If
you are a man, Professor Frowenfeld, you will defend yourself!"

Frowenfeld lost his temper, but his hasty reply was drowned by Raoul's
vehement speech.

"'Tis not de trute!" cried Raoul. "He try to save you from
hell-'n'-damnation w'en 'e h-ought to give you a good cuss'n!"--and in
the ecstasy of his anger burst into tears.

Frowenfeld, in an agony of annoyance, waved him away and he disappeared,
shutting the door.

Agricola, moved far more from within than from without, had sunk into a
chair under the shelves. His head was bowed, a heavy grizzled lock fell
down upon his dark, frowning brow, one hand clenched the top of his
staff, the other his knee, and both trembled violently. As Frowenfeld,
with every demonstration of beseeching kindness, began to speak, he
lifted his eyes and said, piteously:

"Stop! Stop!"

"Citizen Fusilier, it is you who must stop. Stop before God Almighty
stops you, I beg you. I do not presume to rebuke you. I _know_ you want
a clear record. I know it better to-day than I ever did before. Citizen
Fusilier, I honor your intentions--"

Agricola roused a little and looked up with a miserable attempt at his
habitual patronizing smile.

"H-my dear boy, I overlook"--but he met in

Frowenfeld's eyes a spirit so superior to his dissimulation that the
smile quite broke down and gave way to another of deprecatory and
apologetic distress. He reached