We forced our way through, and there we saw Mr. Frank Sullivan with his hat off, his arms crossed, and his back against the wall, presenting a dauntless front to the gesticulations and threats of an exceedingly enraged young man with red hair, who was abusing him furiously.  The amount of temper displayed by this young man was something unparalleled.  He was angry in every one of his limbs.  He stamped, he shook his fist, he shook his head.  The very tips of his ears looked scarlet with rage.  Every now and then he faced round to the spectators, and appealed to them—­or to a stout woman with a green fan, who was almost as red and angry as himself, and who always rushed forward when addressed, and shook the green fan in Sullivan’s face.

“You are an aristocrat!” stormed the young man.  “A pampered, insolent aristocrat!  A dog of an Englishman!  A scelerat!  Don’t suppose you are to trample upon us for nothing!  We are Frenchmen, you beggarly islander—­Frenchmen, do you hear?”

A growl of sympathetic indignation ran through the crowd, and “a bas les aristocrats—­a bas les Anglais!” broke out here and there.

“In the devil’s name, Sullivan,” said Dalrymple, shouldering his way up to the object of these agreeable menaces, “what have you been after, to bring this storm about your ears?”

“Pshaw! nothing at all,” replied he with a mocking laugh, and a contemptuous gesture.  “I danced with a pretty girl, and treated her to champagne afterwards.  Her mother and brother hunted us out, and spoiled our flirtation.  That’s the whole story.”

Something in the laugh and gesture—­something, too, perhaps in the language which they could not understand, appeared to give the last aggravation to both of Sullivan’s assailants.  I saw the young man raise his arm to strike—­I saw Dalrymple fell him with a blow that would have stunned an ox—­I saw the crowd close in, heard the storm break out on every side, and, above it all, the deep, strong tones of Dalrymple’s voice, saying:—­

“To the boat, boys!  Follow me.”

In another moment he had flung himself into the crowd, dealt one or two sounding blows to left and right, cleared a passage for himself and us, and sped away down one of the narrow walks leading to the river.  Presently, having taken one or two turnings, none of which seemed to lead to the spot we sought, we came upon an open space full of piled-up benches, pyramids of empty bottles, boxes, baskets, and all kinds of lumber.  Here we paused to listen and take breath.

We had left the crowd behind us, but they were still within hearing.

“By Jove!” said Dalrymple, “I don’t know which way to go.  I believe we are on the wrong side of the island.”

“And I believe they are after us,” added Sullivan, peering into the baskets.  “By all that’s fortunate, here are the fireworks!  Has anybody got a match?  We’ll take these with us, and go off in a blaze of triumph!”