end without any explosion.  The day after, another solemn procession was to take place to the church of St. Vincent.  Somewhat reassured, but still somewhat disquieted, the bishop fetched from the domains of the bishopric a body of peasants, some of whom he charged to protect the church, others his own palace, and once more accompanied the procession without the conspirators daring to attack him.  This time he was completely reassured, and dismissed the peasants he had sent for.  “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’s, and prayed him to put a stop to this state of violence.  ‘What do you suppose,’ said he to me, ’those 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.”

Three days later all seemed quiet; and the bishop was busy with his archdeacon in discussing the sums to be exacted from the burghers.  All at once a tumult arose in the town; and a crowd of people thronged the streets, shouting “Commune! commune!” Bands of burghers armed with swords, axes, bows, hatchets, clubs, and lances, rushed into the episcopal palace.  At the news of this, the knights who had promised the bishop to go to his assistance if he needed it came up one after another to his protection; and three of them, in succession, were hotly attacked by the burgher bands, and fell after a short resistance.  The episcopal palace was set on fire.  The bishop, not being in a condition to repulse the assaults of the populace, assumed the dress of one of his own domestics, fled to the cellar of the church, shut himself in, and ensconced himself in a cask, the bung-hole of which was stopped up by a faithful servitor.  The crowd wandered about everywhere in search of him on whom they wished to wreak their vengeance.  A bandit named Teutgaud, notorious in those times for his robberies, assaults, and murders of travellers, had thrown himself headlong into the cause of the commune.  The bishop, who knew him, had by way of pleasantry and on account of his evil mien given him the nickname of Isengrin.  This was the name which was given in the fables of the day to the wolf, and which corresponded to that of Master Reynard.  Teutgaud and his men penetrated into the cellar of the church; they went along tapping upon all the casks; and on what suspicion there is no knowing, but Teutgaud halted in front of that in which the bishop was huddled up, and had it opened, crying, “Is there any one here?” “Only a poor prisoner,” answered the bishop, trembling.  “Ha! ha!” said the playful bandit, who recognized the voice,