"Professor Frowenfeld, it strikes me, sir, you are taking something of a liberty."
"For which I ask pardon," exclaimed Frowenfeld. "Then I may not expect--"
The old man melted again.
"But who is this person in mortal peril?"
Frowenfeld hesitated.
"Citizen Fusilier," he said, looking first down at the floor and then up into the inquirer's face, "on my assurance that he is not only a native Creole, but a Grandissime--"
"It is not possible!" exclaimed Agricola.
"--a Grandissime of the purest blood, will you pledge me your aid to liberate him from his danger, 'right or wrong'?"
"Will I? H-why, certainly! Who is he?"
"Citizen--it is Sylves--"