"He cursed his baptism," answered tall Medallion, the English auctioneer,
pushing his way farther into the crowd.

"Ah, the pitiful vaurien!" said the Little Chemist's wife, shudderingly;
for that was an oath not to be endured by any one who called the Church
mother.

The crowd that had gathered at the Four Corners were greatly disturbed,
for they also felt the repulsion that possessed the Little Chemist's
wife. They babbled, shook their heads, and waved their hands excitedly,
and swayed and craned their necks to see the offender.

All at once his voice, mad with rage, was heard above the rest, shouting
frenziedly a curse which was a horribly grotesque blasphemy upon the name
of God. Men who had used that oath in their insane anger had been known
to commit suicide out of remorse afterwards.

For a moment there was a painful hush. The crowd drew back involuntarily
and left a clear space, in which stood the blasphemer--a middle-sized,
athletic fellow, with black beard, thick, waving hair, and flashing brown
eyes. His white teeth were showing now in a snarl like a dog's, his cap
was on the ground, his hair was tumbled, his hands were twitching with
passion, his foot was stamping with fury, and every time it struck the
ground a little silver bell rang at his knee--a pretty sylvan sound, in
no keeping with the scene. It heightened the distress of the fellow's
blasphemy and ungovernable anger. For a man to curse his baptism was a
wicked thing; but the other oath was not fit for human ears, and horror
held the crowd moveless for a moment.

Then, as suddenly as the stillness came, a low, threatening mumble of