gestures that seemed little disposed to acknowledge the parental
authority.

"Gentlemen," said Dalibard, turning a shade more pale, for though morally
most resolute, physically he was not brave,--"gentlemen, I must beg you
to excuse me; this child is my son!"

"But Art is his mother," replied a tall, raw-boned young man, with long
tawny hair streaming down from a hat very much battered. "At the
juvenile age, the child is consigned to the mother! Have I said it?" and
he turned round theatrically to his comrades.

"Bravo!" cried the rest, clapping their hands.

"Down with all tyrants and fathers! hip, hip, Hurrah!" and the hideous
diapason nearly split the drum of the ears into which it resounded.

"Gabriel," whispered the father, "you had better follow me, had you not?
Reflect!" So saying, he bowed low to the unpropitious assembly, and as
if yielding the victory, stepped aside and crossed over towards Bond
Street.

Before the din of derision and triumph died away, Dalibard looked back,
and saw Gabriel behind him.

"Approach, sir," he said; and as the boy stood still, he added, "I
promise peace if you will accept it."

"Peace, then," answered Gabriel, and he joined his father's side.