to charge.

There was no mistaking his identity--it was Le Bour.

"_Proces-verbal_ for all of you," he bellowed; "you, Monsieur le Baron,
and you, Monsieur le Vicomte," he snapped, as the Baron advanced to
defend his guests. "I saw you cross my buckwheat," he declared pointing
an ugly finger at the Vicomte.

"You lie!" shouted the Baron, before the Vicomte could find his words.
"I forbid you to open your head to my guests. Not one of these gentlemen
has set foot in your harvest. What right have _you_ to carry a gun?
Where is your hunting permit?" thundered the Baron. "Where's your
commission as guard, that you should have the insolence to threaten us
with a _proces-verbal_."

"Ah!" exclaimed the Baron, as the permit was not forthcoming, "I thought
as much. I appoint you witness, Monsieur le Cure, the fellow has no
permit." And we swelled the merriment with a forced sputter of ridicule.

"Come, my friends, we shall leave this imbecile to himself," laughed the
Baron.

Le Bour sprang past him and confronted us.

"_Eh ben_, my fine gentlemen," he snarled, "you'll not get away so
easily. I demand, in the name of the law, your hunting permits. Come,
_allons_! All of you!"

At the same instant he tore open his blouse and displayed, to our
dismay, an oval brass plaque bearing his name and the number 1247.

"There!" cried the old man, white and trembling with rage. "There's my
full commission as guard."

My companion with the gloves next to me fidgeted nervously and coughed.
I saw the Vicomte turn a little pale. Tanrade shrugged his shoulders.
Monsieur le Cure's face wore an expression of dignified gravity. Not
once, however, had Le Bour's eyes met his own. It was evident that he
reverently excluded the cure from the affair.

The Vicomte looked uncomfortable enough. The truth was, he was not known
to be at the hunt. The Vicomtesse was shrewd when it came to the
question of his whereabouts. A _proces-verbal_ meant publicity;
naturally the Vicomtesse would know. It might even reach the adorable
ears of Mademoiselle Rosalie, of the _corps de ballet_, who imagined the
Vicomte safe with his family. The Baron was fuming, but he did not
speak.

"Your permits!" reiterated Le Bour, flourishing his license.

There was an awkward silence; not a few in the party had left their
permits at home.

"_Pouf!_" exclaimed the Baron. "Enough of this! _En route_, my friends!"

"_Eh, bien!_" growled the farmer. "You refuse to produc