"God of God!" swore Pantaloon. "But it is an ogre, this Marquis de La Tour d'Azyr!"
"I have told you already what I think of him," said André-Louis. "As for these fellows you had better let me deal with them. I have experience of their kind." And without waiting for Pantaloon's consent, André-Louis stepped forward to meet the advancing men of the maréchaussée. He had realized that here boldness alone could save him.
When a moment later the sergeant pulled up his horse alongside of this half-dressed young man, André-Louis combed his hair what time he looked up with a half smile, intended to be friendly, ingenuous, and disarming.
In spite of it the sergeant hailed him gruffly: "Are you the leader of this troop of vagabonds?"
"Yes ... that is to say, my father, there, is really the leader." And he jerked a thumb in the direction of M. Pantaloon, who stood at gaze out of earshot in the background. "What is your pleasure, captain?"
"My pleasure is to tell you that you are very likely to be gaoled for this, all the pack of you." His voice was loud and bullying. It carried across the common to the ears of every member of the company, and brought them all to stricken attention where they stood. The lot of strolling players was hard enough without the addition of gaolings.
"But how so, my captain? This is communal land—free to all."
"It is nothing of the kind."
"Where are the fences?" quoth André-Louis, waving the hand that held the comb, as if to indicate the openness of the place.
"Fences!" snorted the sergeant. "What have fences to do with the matter? This is terre censive. There is no grazing here save by payment of dues to the Marquis de La Tour d'Azyr."
"But we are not grazing," quoth the innocent André-Louis.
