"Wait," reiterated the vagabond, mistaking his mind: "Yes, I can understand you being willing to wait, for you are a farmer, and have always had more than enough to make you fat. But look at my mates: the deaths-heads and raw-bones surrounding us; see their veins dried up, count their bones through the holes in their tatters, and ask them if they know what waiting in patience means?" >
"This man speaks glibly, but he frightens me," remarked Pitou.
"He does not frighten me," replied Billet. Then turning to the stranger, he went on: "I say, patience, because in a quarter-hour yet we shall do."
"I can't call that much," answered the vagrant smiling, "but how much better off will we be then?"
"I shall have visited the Bastile by then," rejoined the farmer-revolutionist. "I shall know how strong the garrison is and the governor's intention—I shall in short have a glimpse of how we can get in."
"It will do, if you see how to get out."
"Well, as to that, if I do not come out, I know a man who will fetch me out."
"Who is he?"
"Gonchon, the People's Spokesman, their orator, their Mirabeau."
"You don't know him," said the man, his eyes flashing fire. "So, how do you make that out?"