“There’s something else, too,” he said, soberly, and drew a telegram from his pocket.
I seized it, and studied the fluttering sheet:
“The governor of Lorient, on complaint of the mayor of Paradise, forbids the American exhibition, and orders the individual Byram to travel immediately to Lorient with his so-called circus, where a British steamship will transport the personnel, baggage, and animals to British territory. The mayor of Paradise will see that this order of expulsion is promptly executed.
“(Signed) Breteuil.
“Chief of Police.”
“Where did you get that telegram?” I asked.
“It’s a copy; the mayor came with it. Byram does not know about it.”
“Don’t let him know it!” I said, quickly; “this thing will kill him, I believe. Where is that fool of a mayor? Come on, Kelly! Stay close beside me.” And I set off at a swinging pace, down the hollow, out across the left bank of the little river, straight to the bridge, which we reached almost on a run.
“Look there!” cried my companion, as we came in sight of the square.
The square was packed with Breton peasants; near the fountain two cider barrels had been placed, a plank thrown across them, and on this plank stood a man holding a red flag.
The man was John Buckhurst.