against the brutal missile
in the hands of the ticket-of-leave man, whose Chauvinism was a matter
of absinthe, natural evil, and Gabrielle Rouget. "Wretches! scum of
France!" he cried: "what is this here? And you, Gabrielle, do you sleep?
Do you permit murder?"

The woman met the fire in his eyes without flinching, and some one
answered for her. "He is an English spy."

"Take care, Gabrielle," the young officer went on, "take care--you go
too far!" Waving back the sullen crowd, now joined by the woman who had
not yet spoken, he said: "Who are you, monsieur? What is the trouble?"

Shorland drew from his pocket his letters and credentials. Gabrielle now
stood at the young officer's elbow. As the papers were handed over, a
photograph dropped from among them and fell to the floor face upward.
Shorland stooped to pick it up, but, as he did so, he heard a low
exclamation from Gabrielle. He looked up. She pointed to the portrait,
and said gaspingly: "My God--look! look!" She leaned forward and touched
the portrait in his hand. "Look! look!" she said again. And then she
paused, and a moment after laughed. But there was no mirth in her
laughter--it was hollow and nervous. Meanwhile the young officer had
glanced at the papers, and now handed them back, with the words: "All is
right, monsieur--eh, Gabrielle, well, what is the matter?" But she drew
back, keeping her eyes fixed on the Englishman, and did not answer.

The young officer stretched out his hand. "I am Alencon Barre,
lieutenant, at your service. Let us go, monsieur."

But there was some unusual devilry working in that drunken crowd. The
sight of an officer was not sufficient to awe them into obedience. Bad
blood had been fired, and it was fed by some cause unknown to Alencon
Barre, but to be understood fully hereafter. The mass surged forward,
with cries of "Down with the Englishman!"

Alencon Barre drew his sword. "Villains!" he cried, and pressed the
point against the breast of the leader, who drew back. Then Gabrielle's
voice was heard: "No, no, my children," she said, "no more of that
to-day--not to-day. Let the man go." Her face was white and drawn.

Shorland had been turning over in his mind all the events of the last
few moments, and he thought as he looked at her that just such women had
made a hell of the Paris Commune. But one thought dominated all others.
What was the meaning of her excitement when she saw the portrait--the
portrait of Luke Freeman?