settled times of rest. In his little sphere he was a man of consequence,
not of such importance as he imagined, but, nevertheless, before his
fellows. He had been at the storming of the Bastille, that gave him
prestige; he had a truculent swagger which counted in these days,
especially if there had been no opportunity of being proved a coward.
Perchance Sabatier had never been put to the test. In a rabble it is
easy to shout loudly, yet be where the danger is least, and this
wide-mouthed patriot had much to say about himself.

His sleep was sound enough for the proverbial just man, sound and
dreamless, aided perhaps by a liberal allowance of wine. At daybreak he
was still slumbering, and the little crowd of men who presently found
him in the barn had some trouble in rousing him. He struggled to his
feet, his mind a blank for a moment.

"What is it? What do you want?" and for an instant there was a look in
his eyes strangely like fear.

"You sent for us," said one.

"Ah! I remember." Sabatier was himself again. "There's work for us in
the village yonder. Rats in a hole, comrades. We go to smoke them out."

A fierce undertone of approval was the answer.

So in the early morning there was once more a heavy battering at the
closed door of the tavern, and shouting to the landlord to open quickly.
He came shuffling down the stairs.

"It's over early for guests," he said sleepily, "but you're good men, I