“It is symbolical of Jove,” said Caron.
“Foul imps attend him!”
“They are his Mercuries.”
“No more words!” said the Colonel. “String the rascal up!”
That was the common emergency exit in the then theatres of war. It had taken the place of the “little window” through which former traitors to their country had been invited to look.
Pepino leapt to his feet, with a sudden scream.
“No, no! He is Caron, the wit, the showman, dear to all hearts!”
Colonel Regnac’s great neck seemed to swell like a ruttish wolf’s. His little eyes shot red with laughter. He had as keen a scent as the sub-prefect for a woman.
“Good!” he said; “he shall make us a show.”
“Señor, for the love of God! He spoke the truth. His father is dead.”