But for the grand coat of arms and ducal coronet emblazoned on the panels, which inspired a certain awe as well as respect in the motley throng of pedestrians, the equipage would undoubtedly have been roughly dealt with-but as it was, they contented themselves with resolutely and obstinately barring its passage, after it had reached the middle of the square.  The indignant coachman did not dare to urge his spirited horses forward at all hazards, ruthlessly trampling down the unlucky individuals who happened to be directly in his way, as he would certainly have done in any ordinary crowd, for the canaille, that filled the Place de Greve to overflowing, was out in too great force to be trifled with—­so there was nothing for it but patience.

“These rascals are waiting for an execution, and will not stir, nor let us stir, until it is over,” said a remarkably handsome young man, magnificently dressed, to his equally fine looking, though more modestly attired friend, who was seated beside him in the luxurious carriage.  “The devil take the unlucky dog who must needs be broken on the wheel just when we want to cross the Place de Greve.  Why couldn’t he have put it off until to-morrow morning, I should like to know!”

“You may be sure that the poor wretch would be only too glad to do so if he could,” answered the other, “for the occasion is a far more serious matter to him than to us.”

“The best thing we can do under the circumstances, my dear de Sigognac, is to turn our heads away if the spectacle is too revolting—­though it is by no means easy, when something horrible is taking place close at hand.  Even Saint Augustine opened his eyes in the arena at a loud cheer from the people, though he had vowed to himself beforehand to keep them closed.”

“At all events, we shall not be detained here long,” rejoined de Sigognac, “for there comes the prisoner.  See, Vallombreuse, how the crowd gives way before him, though it will not let us move an inch.”

A rickety cart, drawn by a miserable old skeleton of a horse, and surrounded by mounted guards, was slowly advancing through the dense throng towards the scaffold.  In it were a venerable priest, with a long white beard, who was holding a crucifix to the lips of the condemned man, seated beside him, the executioner, placed behind his victim, and holding the end of the rope that bound him, and an assistant, who was driving the poor old horse.  The criminal, whom every one turned to gaze at, was no other than our old acquaintance, Agostino, the brigand.

“Why, what is this!” cried de Sigognac, in great surprise.  “I know that man—­he is the fellow who stopped us on the highway, and tried to frighten us with his band of scarecrows, as poor Matamore called them.  I told you all about it when we came by the place where it happened.”

“Yes, I remember perfectly,” said Vallombreuse; “it was a capital story, and I had a good laugh over it.  But it would seem that the ingenious rascal has been up to something more serious since then—­his ambition has probably been his ruin.  He certainly is no coward—­only look what a good face he puts on it.”