The shadow was coming toward them.
"Holé! friend, who are you?" cried Pompée.
The shadow halted with a very perceptible start of terror.
"Do you shout now," said Pompée.
"It's useless," said the viscount; "the poor devil is frightened enough already."
"Ah! he's afraid!" said Pompée, raising his weapon.
"Mercy, monsieur!" exclaimed the man, falling on his knees, "mercy! I am only a poor pedler, and I haven't sold as much as a pocket-handkerchief for a week; I haven't a sou about me."
What Pompée had taken for a musket was the yard-stick with which the poor devil measured off his wares.
"Pray understand, my friend," said Pompée, majestically, "that we are no thieves, but fighting men, travelling at night because we are afraid of nothing; go your way in peace; you are free."
"Here, my friend," the milder voice of the viscount interposed, "here's a half-pistole for the fright we gave you, and may God be with you!"