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?

He felt that he was standing on the verge of some tragic history.

Barre's sword again made a clear circle round him, and he said: "Shame,
Frenchmen! This gentleman is no spy. He is the friend of the Governor--
he is my friend. He is English? Well, where is the English flag, there
are the French--good French-protected. Where is the French flag, there
shall the English--good English--be safe."

As they moved towards the door Gabrielle came forward, and, touching