RIFE.

The house of the Huguenot merchant was a tall, narrow building standing
at the corner of the Rue St. Martin and the Rue de Biron. It was four
stories in height, grim and grave like its owner, with high peaked roof,
long diamond-paned windows, a frame-work of black wood, with gray
plaster filling the interstices, and five stone steps which led up to
the narrow and sombre door. The upper story was but a warehouse in
which the trader kept his stock, but the second and third were furnished
with balconies edged with stout wooden balustrades. As the uncle and
the nephew sprang out of the caleche, they found themselves upon the
outskirts of a dense crowd of people, who were swaying and tossing with
excitement, their chins all thrown forwards and their gaze directed
upwards. Following their eyes, the young officer saw a sight which left
him standing bereft of every sensation save amazement.

From the upper balcony there was hanging head downwards a man clad in
the bright blue coat and white breeches of one of the king's dragoons.
His hat and wig had dropped off, and his close-cropped head swung slowly
backwards and forwards a good fifty feet above the pavement. His face
was turned towards the street, and was of a deadly whiteness, while his
eyes were screwed up as though he dared not open them upon the horror
which faced them. His voice, however, resounded over the whole place
until the air was filled with his screams for mercy.

Above him, at the corner of the balcony, there stood a young man who
leaned with a bent back over the balustrades, and who held the dangling
dragoon by either ankle. His face, however, was not directed towards
his victim, but was half turned over his shoulder to confront a group of
soldiers who were clustering at the long, open window which led out into
the balcony. His head, as he glanced at them, was poised with a proud
air of defiance, while they surged and oscillated in the opening,
uncertain whether to rush on or to retire.

Suddenly the crowd gave a groan of excitement. The young man had
released his grip upon one of the ankles, and the dragoon hung now by
one only, his other leg flapping helplessly in the air. He grabbed
aimlessly with his hands at the wall and the wood-work behind him, still
yelling at the pitch of his lungs.

"Pull me up, son of the devil, pull me up!" he screamed. "Would you
murder me, then? Help, good people, help!"

"Do you want to come up, captain?