Agricola could not be silent.

“Ha-a-a-ah!  Joseph, h-h-you make my blood tingle!  Speak to the point; who—­”

“I believe him, moreover, Citizen Fusilier, innocent of the charge laid—­”

“H-innocent?  H-of course he is innocent, sir!  We will make him inno—­”

“Ah!  Citizen, he is already under sentence of death!”

“What? A Creole under sentence!” Agricola swore a heathen oath, set his knees apart and grasped his staff by the middle.  “Sir, we will liberate him if we have to overturn the government!”

Frowenfeld shook his head.

“You have got to overturn something stronger than government.”

“And pray what—­”

“A conventionality,” said Frowenfeld, holding the old man’s eye.

“Ha, ha! my b-hoy, h-you are right.  But we will overturn—­eh?”

“I say I fear your engagements will prevent.  I hear you take part to-morrow morning in—­”

Agricola suddenly stiffened.

“Professor Frowenfeld, it strikes me, sir, you are taking something of a liberty.”

“For which I ask pardon,” exclaimed Frowenfeld.  “Then I may not expect—­”

The old man melted again.

“But who is this person in mortal peril?”

Frowenfeld hesitated.

“Citizen Fusilier,” he said, looking first down at the floor and then up into the inquirer’s face, “on my assurance that he is not only a native Creole, but a Grandissime—­”

“It is not possible!” exclaimed Agricola.

“—­a Grandissime of the purest blood, will you pledge me your aid to liberate him from his danger, ’right or wrong’?”

“Will I?  H-why, certainly!  Who is he?”

“Citizen—­it is Sylves—­”

Agricola sprang up with a thundering oath.

The apothecary put out a pacifying hand, but it was spurned.

“Let me go!  How dare you, sir?  How dare you, sir?” bellowed Agricola.

He started toward the door, cursing furiously and keeping his eye fixed on Frowenfeld with a look of rage not unmixed with terror.

“Citizen Fusilier,” said the apothecary, following him with one palm uplifted, as if that would ward off his abuse, “don’t go!  I adjure you, don’t go!  Remember your pledge, Citizen Fusilier!”

Agricola did not pause a moment; but when he had swung the door violently open the way was still obstructed.  The painter of “Louisiana refusing to enter the Union” stood before him, his head elevated loftily, one foot set forward and his arm extended like a tragedian’s.

“Stan’ bag-sah!”

“Let me pass!  Let me pass, or I will kill you!”

Mr. Innerarity smote his bosom and tossed his hand aloft.

“Kill me-firse an’ pass aftah!”

“Citizen Fusilier,” said Frowenfeld, “I beg you to hear me.”

“Go away!  Go away!”

The old man drew back from the door and stood in the corner against the book-shelves as if all the horrors of the last night’s dreams had taken bodily shape in the person of the apothecary.  He trembled and stammered: