Jacques Sabatier did not move until the sound of his comrade’s horse had died into silence, then he went toward the farm, tethered his horse, and threw himself down on the straw in a dilapidated barn.  Sleep must be taken when it could be got.  The days and nights were too full for settled times of rest.  In his little sphere he was a man of consequence, not of such importance as he imagined, but, nevertheless, before his fellows.  He had been at the storming of the Bastille, that gave him prestige; he had a truculent swagger which counted in these days, especially if there had been no opportunity of being proved a coward.  Perchance Sabatier had never been put to the test.  In a rabble it is easy to shout loudly, yet be where the danger is least, and this wide-mouthed patriot had much to say about himself.

His sleep was sound enough for the proverbial just man, sound and dreamless, aided perhaps by a liberal allowance of wine.  At daybreak he was still slumbering, and the little crowd of men who presently found him in the barn had some trouble in rousing him.  He struggled to his feet, his mind a blank for a moment.

“What is it?  What do you want?” and for an instant there was a look in his eyes strangely like fear.

“You sent for us,” said one.

“Ah!  I remember.”  Sabatier was himself again.  “There’s work for us in the village yonder.  Rats in a hole, comrades.  We go to smoke them out.”

A fierce undertone of approval was the answer.

So in the early morning there was once more a heavy battering at the closed door of the tavern, and shouting to the landlord to open quickly.  He came shuffling down the stairs.

“It’s over early for guests,” he said sleepily, “but you’re good men, I see.  Come in.”

Then he caught sight of Sabatier and trembled a little.  He was an old man, and had been oppressed so long that he had become used to it.  He understood very little of what was going forward in the country.

“Where are the aristocrats?” hissed a dozen raucous voices.

“Those guests of yours,” said Sabatier.

“They have gone—­went soon after you left last night.  It was a surprise, but I had no power to stop them.”

There was an angry movement toward the landlord.

“Wait,” said Sabatier.  “He is probably a liar.  We shall see.”

The men searched the house, some watching the doors lest the aristocrats should make a dash for freedom.  Certainly there was a guest here still, but he made no effort to escape.  At the top of the stairs was a door—­locked.

“The key,” Sabatier demanded.

“I will fetch it,” was the timid answer.

The locked door was suspicious.  Two men ran hastily to watch the window and prevent escape that way.  And why delay for the key?  Not a very strong lock this, a blow from a man’s heel could break it, did break it, and the door crashed open, splitting itself from one of its hinges.