I wore a sword, and I drew it and sprang to the well-mouth.
“God in heaven!” I cried, “what are you doing with him down there?”
Several had risen by this, and were set at me, snarling like dogs.
“The man is forfeit to the law!” they yelped.
“That is for the law to decide.”
“The people are the law. We sit here to condemn him while he cools his heels.”
“Send monsieur to fetch his friend up!” cried Lacombe’s voice over their heads. “He will be dainty to wash his white fingers after a meal!”
There were cries of “Aristocrat!” Possibly they would have put the brute’s suggestion into effect—for a tipsy patriot has no bowels—had not Crépin at that moment run into the yard. I informed him of the situation in a word, as he joined me by the well-side.
“Haul up the man!” he said, coolly and peremptorily. His office procured him some respect and more fear. Our fellows had no stomach but to obey, and they came to the windlass, muttering, and wound their victim up to the surface. He was a pitiable sight when he reached it. They had trussed him to the rope with a savagery to which his swollen joints bore witness, and, with a refinement of cruelty, had cut the bucket from under his feet, that the full weight of his body should hang without support. In this condition they had then lowered him up to his neck in the black water.
He fell, when released, a sodden moaning heap on the stones.