Dawn, which is light in a chrysalis state, leaves even those forms which are in movement in the uncertainty of night.  Ursus, wan and indistinct, walked slowly, like a man in a dream.  In the wild distraction produced by agony of mind, he had left the inn with his head bare.  He had not even found out that he had no hat on.  His spare, gray locks fluttered in the wind.  His open eyes appeared sightless.  Often when awake we are asleep, and as often when asleep we are awake.

Ursus looked like a lunatic.

“Master Ursus,” cried the innkeeper, “come; their honours desire to speak to you.”

Master Nicless, in his endeavour to soften matters down, let slip, although he would gladly have omitted, this plural, “their honours”—­respectful to the group, but mortifying, perhaps, to the chief, confounded therein, to some degree, with his subordinates.

Ursus started like a man falling off a bed, on which he was sound asleep.

“What is the matter?” said he.

He saw the police, and at the head of the police the justice.  A fresh and rude shock.

But a short time ago, the wapentake, now the justice of the quorum.  He seemed to have been cast from one to the other, as ships by some reefs of which we have read in old stories.

The justice of the quorum made him a sign to enter the tavern.  Ursus obeyed.

Govicum, who had just got up, and who was sweeping the room, stopped his work, got into a corner behind the tables, put down his broom, and held his breath.  He plunged his fingers into his hair, and scratched his head, a symptom which indicated attention to what was about to occur.

The justice of the quorum sat down on a form, before a table.  Barkilphedro took a chair.  Ursus and Master Nicless remained standing.  The police officers, left outside, grouped themselves in front of the closed door.

The justice of the quorum fixed his eye, full of the law, upon Ursus.  He said,—­

“You have a wolf.”

Ursus answered,—­

“Not exactly.”

“You have a wolf,” continued the justice, emphasizing “wolf” with a decided accent.

Ursus answered,—­

“You see—­”

And he was silent.

“A misdemeanour!” replied the justice.

Ursus hazarded an excuse,—­

“He is my servant.”

The justice placed his hand flat on the table, with his fingers spread out, which is a very fine gesture of authority.

“Merry-andrew! to-morrow, by this hour, you and your wolf must have left England.  If not, the wolf will be seized, carried to the register office, and killed.”

Ursus thought, “More murder!” but he breathed not a syllable, and was satisfied with trembling in every limb.

“You hear?” said the justice.

Ursus nodded.

The justice persisted,—­

“Killed.”

There was silence.