"Madame John"—bowing—"I am your neighbor, Kristian Koppig."
Madame John bows low, and smiles—a ball-room smile, but is frightened, and her escort,—the manager,—drops her hand and slips away.
"Ah! Monsieur," she whispers excitedly, "you will be killed if you stay here a moment. Are you armed? No. Take this." She tried to slip a dirk into his hands, but he would not have it.
"Oh, my dear young man, go! Go quickly!" she plead, glancing furtively down the hall.
"I wish you not to dance," said the young man.
"I have danced already; I am going home. Come; be quick! we will go together." She thrust her arm through his, and they hastened into the street. When a square had been passed there came a sound of men running behind them.
"Run, Monsieur, run!" she cried, trying to drag him; but Monsieur
Dutchman would not.
"Run, Monsieur! Oh, my God! it is 'Sieur"—
"That for yesterday!" cried the manager, striking fiercely with his cane. Kristian Koppig's fist rolled him in the dirt.
"That for 'Tite Poulette!" cried another man dealing the Dutchman a terrible blow from behind.