"You say that you are a fiddler. What proofs of that can you give us?"
"My fiddle," answered Sadi, almost joyously; "you will find it on the stones upstairs, sir."
The answer surprised the men very much.
"Go and look for it, trooper," said the officer, quietly; "there is plenty of time before daylight to settle this fellow's affair. Besides, the captain is fond of a little music."
The trooper clambered up out of the cellar at the word of command, while the lieutenant calmly lighted a cigar and surveyed Sadi with an ironical glance.
"Poor business, yours, just now, is it not?" he asked.
"So poor that I am starving," said Sadi, with dignified simplicity.
"Ah! And you look for your supper on the dust-heaps. Just like a fiddler."
"I have walked to the ramparts and back every evening for three years," rejoined Sadi, whose self-possession remained to him. "The habit clings to me; besides, what is the harm?" he asked.
"The captain will teach you that; don't let me deceive you at all; he will certainly shoot you, old fellow. For myself, I am sensitive; it is my weakness to prefer live bodies to dead ones. I could not—no, I could not harm a fly, my Stradivarius. That is why you are now allowed to say your prayers."