sued, had not a party of five or six of the
franc tireurs come along at the moment.

These--seeing their comrades standing with leveled bayonets,
keeping the mob at bay--without asking any questions, at once burst
their way through to their side; distributing blows right and left,
heartily, with the butt-end of their rifles. This reinforcement put
an end to the threatened conflict; and the gendarmes, aided by two
of the franc tireurs, lifted the insensible man and carried him to
the Maine; the rest of the franc tireurs marching on either side as
a guard, and the yelling crowd following them.

Once inside the Maine the gates were shut and--the supposed spy
being laid down on the bench--cold water was dashed in his face;
and in a few minutes he opened his eyes.

"The murdering villains!" he muttered to himself. "They've kilt me
entirely, bad luck to them! A hundred to one, the cowardly
blackguards!

"Where am I?" and he made an effort to rise.

"You're all right," Ralph said. "You're with friends. Don't be
afraid, you're safe now."

"Jabers!" exclaimed the Irishman in astonishment, sitting up and
looking round him, "here's a little French soldier, speaking as
illegant English as I do, meself."

"I'm English," laughed Ralph, "and lucky it was for you that we
came along. We heard you call out, just as you fell; and got in in
time, with the help of our friends, to save your life. Another
minute or two, and we should have been too late."

"God bless your honor!" the man--who had now thoroughly recovered
himself--said earnestly. "And it was a tight shave, entirely.
You've saved Tim Doyle's life; and your honor shall see that he's
not ungrateful. Whenever you want a lad with a strong arm and a
thick stick, Tim's the boy."

"Thank you, Tim," Ralph said, heartily. "Now you had better let the
surgeon look at your head. You have got some nasty cuts."

"Sure, and my head's all right, your honor It isn't a tap from a
Frenchman that would break the skull of Tim Doyle."

The gendarmes now intimated that, as the prisoner was restored, he
must go in at once before the Maire. The young Barclays accompanied
him, and acted as interpreters at the examination. The story was a
simple one, and the passport and other papers upon the Irishman
proved its truth conclusively.

Tim was an Irishman, who had come out as groom with an English
gentleman. His master had fallen ill at Lyons, had parted with his
horses and carriage, and ret