interrogator; for, silently handing his coffee and the newspaper, he left
the room; not, however, without bestowing a parting glance so full of
terror and dismay that our friend was obliged to smile at it. All this
was the work of a few minutes, and not until the noise of new arrivals
had attracted the attention of his brother officers, did they perceive
where he had installed himself, and to what danger he was thus, as they
supposed, unwittingly exposed.

It was now, however, too late for remonstrance; for already several
French officers had noticed the circumstance, and by their interchange of
looks and signs, openly evinced their satisfaction at it, and their
delight at the catastrophe which seemed inevitable to the luckless
Englishman.

In perfect misery at what they conceived their own fault, in not
apprising him of the sacred character of that place, they stood silently
looking at him as he continued to sip his coffee, apparently unconscious
of every thing and person about him.

There was now a more than ordinary silence in the cafe, which at all
times was remarkable for the quiet and noiseless demeanour of its
frequenters, when the door was flung open by the ready waiter, and the
Capitaine Augustin Gendemar entered. He was a large, squarely-built man,
with a most savage expression of countenance, which a bushy beard and
shaggy overhanging moustache served successfully to assist; his eyes were
shaded by deep, projecting brows, and long eyebrows slanting over them,
and increasing their look of piercing sharpness; there was in his whole
air and demeanour that certain French air of swaggering bullyism, which
ever remained in those who, having risen from the ranks, maintained the
look of ruffianly defiance which gave their early character for courage