“Here, Agricole,” his kinsmen at length said, “you see you are too old for this sort of thing; besides, it would be bad taste for you, who might be presumed to harbor feelings of revenge, to have a voice in this council.”  And then they added to one another:  “We will wait until ’Polyte reports whether or not they have caught Palmyre; much will depend on that.”

Agricola, thus ruled out, did a thing he did not fully understand; he rolled up the “Philippique Generale” and “The Insanity of Educating the Masses,” and, with these in one hand and his staff in the other, set out for Frowenfeld’s, not merely smarting but trembling under the humiliation of having been sent, for the first time in his life, to the rear as a non-combatant.

He found the apothecary among his clerks, preparing with his own hands the “chalybeate tonic” for which the f.m.c. was expected to call.  Raoul Innerarity stood at his elbow, looking on with an amiable air of having been superseded for the moment by his master.

“Ha-ah!  Professor Frowenfeld!”

The old man nourished his scroll.

Frowenfeld said good-morning, and they shook hands across the counter; but the old man’s grasp was so tremulous that the apothecary looked at him again.

“Does my hand tremble, Joseph?  It is not strange; I have had much to excite me this morning.”

“Wat’s de mattah?” demanded Raoul, quickly.

“My life—­which I admit, Professor Frowenfeld, is of little value compared with such a one as yours—­has been—­if not attempted, at least threatened.”

“How?” cried Raoul.

“H-really, Professor, we must agree that a trifle like that ought not to make old Agricola Fusilier nervous.  But I find it painful, sir, very painful.  I can lift up this right hand, Joseph, and swear I never gave a slave—­man or woman—­a blow in my life but according to my notion of justice.  And now to find my life attempted by former slaves of my own household, and taunted with the righteous hamstringing of a dangerous runaway!  But they have apprehended the miscreants; one is actually in hand, and justice will take its course; trust the Grandissimes for that—­though, really, Joseph, I assure you, I counselled leniency.”

“Do you say they have caught her?” Frowenfeld’s question was sudden and excited; but the next moment he had controlled himself.

“H-h-my son, I did not say it was a ’her’!”

“Was it not Clemence?  Have they caught her?”

“H-yes—­”

The apothecary turned to Raoul.

“Go tell Honore Grandissime.”

“But, Professor Frowenfeld—­” began Agricola.

Frowenfeld turned to repeat his instruction, but Raoul was already leaving the store.

Agricola straightened up angrily.

“Pro-hofessor Frowenfeld, by what right do you interfere?”

“No matter,” said the apothecary, turning half-way and pouring the tonic into a vial.