“Oh, my dear young man, go!  Go quickly!” she plead, glancing furtively down the hall.

“I wish you not to dance,” said the young man.

“I have danced already; I am going home.  Come; be quick! we will go together.”  She thrust her arm through his, and they hastened into the street.  When a square had been passed there came a sound of men running behind them.

“Run, Monsieur, run!” she cried, trying to drag him; but Monsieur Dutchman would not.

“Run, Monsieur!  Oh, my God! it is ’Sieur”—­

“That for yesterday!” cried the manager, striking fiercely with his cane.  Kristian Koppig’s fist rolled him in the dirt.

“That for ’Tite Poulette!” cried another man dealing the Dutchman a terrible blow from behind.

“And that for me!” hissed a third, thrusting at him with something bright.

“That for yesterday!” screamed the manager, bounding like a tiger; “That!” “THAT!” “Ha!”

Then Kristian Koppig knew that he was stabbed.

“That!” and “That!” and “That!” and the poor Dutchman struck wildly here and there, grasped the air, shut his eyes, staggered, reeled, fell, rose half up, fell again for good, and they were kicking him and jumping on him.  All at once they scampered.  Zalli had found the night-watch.

“Buz-z-z-z!” went a rattle.  “Buz-z-z-z!” went another.

“Pick him up.”

“Is he alive?”

“Can’t tell; hold him steady; lead the way, misses.”

“He’s bleeding all over my breeches.”

“This way—­here—­around this corner.”

“This way now—­only two squares more.”

“Here we are.”

“Rap-rap-rap!” on the old brass knocker.  Curses on the narrow wicket, more on the dark archway, more still on the twisting stairs.

Up at last and into the room.

“Easy, easy, push this under his head:  never mind his boots!”

So he lies—­on ’Tite Poulette’s own bed.

The watch are gone.  They pause under the corner lamp to count profits;—­a single bill—­Banque de la Louisiane, fifty dollars.  Providence is kind—­tolerably so.  Break it at the “Guillaume Tell.”  “But did you ever hear any one scream like that girl did?”

And there lies the young Dutch neighbor.  His money will not flutter back to him this time; nor will any voice behind a gate “beg Monsieur to go away.”  O, Woman!—­that knows no enemy so terrible as man!  Come nigh, poor Woman, you have nothing to fear.  Lay your strange, electric touch upon the chilly flesh; it strikes no eager mischief along the fainting veins.  Look your sweet looks upon the grimy face, and tenderly lay back the locks from the congested brows; no wicked misinterpretation lurks to bite your kindness.  Be motherly, be sisterly, fear nought.  Go, watch him by night; you may sleep at his feet and he will not stir.  Yet he lives, and shall live—­may live to forget you, who knows?  But for all that, be gentle and watchful; be womanlike, we ask no more; and God reward you!