Presently he walked abroad; and in the quaint streets and old customs of the little town, here remote from all the things of the present and of the new world as we know it in this day, he found that which soon lifted him into a dream of times long past and of doughty deeds for honour and a lady. Soft voices in the streets, forms flitting from shadow to shadow, priest and strutting gendarme and veiled lady, gabled roofs, barred windows, low doorways, the clatter of sabots, the pendant street lights, the rumble 156 of the ten o’clock drums. These things, seen in a mist, were all of the days when bold ventures were made––of those days when a brave man would recover his own, come what might, if it had been wrongfully wrested from him. It was a rare dream––and not broken until he turned into the Quai de la Ronciere.
As he rounded the corner he was almost knocked from his feet by a burly fellow in a Basque cap who was breathless with haste.
“Monsieur––if he will pardon––it was not–––” this fellow stammered, apologetically.
Men were hurrying past toward the Café d’Espoir, appearing everywhere from the mist and running with the speed of deep excitement. There was a clamorous crowd about the door––pushing, scuffling, shouting.
“What has happened?” Archie asked in French.
“An American has killed a gendarme, monsieur. A ter-rible fellow! Oh, fear-r-rful!”
“And why––what–––”
“He was a ter-rible fellow, monsieur. The gendarmes have been on the lookout for him for three years. And when they laid hands on him he fought, monsieur––fought with the 157 strength of a savage. It took five gendarmes to bind him––five, monsieur. Poor Louis Arnot! He is dead––killed, monsieur, by a pig of an American with his fist. They are to take the murderer to the jail. I am just now running to warn Deschamps to make ready the dungeon cell. If monsieur will but excuse me, I will–––”
He was off; so Archie joined the crowd at the door of the café, which was that place to which Skipper Bill had repaired to hide. He hung on the outskirts of the crowd, unable to push his way further. The wrath of these folk was so noisy that he could catch no word of what went on within. He devoutly hoped that Skipper Bill had kept to his hiding-place despite the suspicious sounds in the café. Then he wormed his way to the door and entered. A moment later he had climbed on a barrel and was overlooking the squirming crowd and eagerly listening to the clamour. Above every sound––above the cries and clatter and gabble––rang the fighting English of Bill o’ Burnt Bay.
It was no American; it was Skipper Bill whom the gendarmes had taken, and he was now so seriously involved, apparently, that his worst enemies could wish him no deeper in the 158 mesh. They had him bound hand and foot and guarded with drawn swords, fearing, probably, that somewhere he had a crew of wild fellows at his back to make a rescue. To attempt a rescue was not to be thought of. It did not enter the boy’s head. He was overcome by grief and terror. He withdrew into a shadow until they had carried Skipper Bill out with a crowd yelping at his heels. Then, white and shaking, he went to a group in the corner where Louis Arnot, the gendarme, was stretched out on the floor.