er was all a myth, now dismissed
the peasants, feeling quite secure.

"On the fourth day after Easter," says Guibert of Nogent, "my corn
having been pillaged in consequence of the disorder that reigned in the
town, I repaired to the bishop, and prayed him to put a stop to this
state of violence.

"'What do you suppose,' said he to me, 'these fellows can do with all
their outbreaks? Why, if my blackamoor, John, were to pull the nose of
the most formidable amongst them, the poor devil durst not even grumble.
Have I not forced them to give up what they called their commune, for
the whole duration of my life?'

"I held my tongue," adds Guibert; "many folks besides me warned him of
his danger, but he would not deign to believe anybody."

For three days all kept quiet. The bishop and his myrmidons busied
themselves in calculating how much cash they could squeeze from the
people. The people lowered like a gathering storm. All at once the storm
broke. A sudden tumult arose; crowds filled the streets. "Commune!
commune!" was the general cry; as if by magic, swords, lances, axes,
bows, and clubs appeared in the hands of the people; with wild shouts of
vengeance they rushed through the streets and burst into the bishop's
palace. The knights who had promised to protect him hastened thither and
faced the infuriated populace. The first three who appeared were hotly
attacked and fell before the axes of the burghers. The others held back.
In a few minutes more flames appeared in the palace, and in no long time
it was a mass of seething fire. The day of vengeance had come.

The bishop had fled to the church. Here, having no means of defence, he
hastily put on the dress of one of his servants and repaired to the
church cellar, where were a number of empty casks. One of these he got
into, a faithful follower then heading him in, and even stopping up the
bung-hole. Meanwhile, the crowd were in eager quest for the object of
their wrath. The palace had been searched before being set on fire; the
church and all accompanying buildings now swarmed with revengeful
burghers. Among these was a bandit named Teutgaud, a fellow notorious
for his robberies and murders of travellers, but now hand and glove with
the commune. The bishop had named him _Isengrin_, the by-word then for
wolf.

This worthy made his way into the cellar, followed by an armed crowd.
Through this they went, tapping the casks as they proceeded. Teutgaud
halted in front of t