Two of the aggressors reeled back, right and left, from the shock of his mighty shoulders; and griping another, the tallest, by the collar, he whirled him some paces off on his back in the streaming kennel, as one might do with a very weak, light little child. “Au large, canaille!” he said, as he advanced on the two who still kept their feet.  These drew back from his path without a second warning.  One indeed, eminent in the savate, made a demonstration for an instant; but his comrade, who had just gathered himself up, caught his arm, muttering “Ne t’y frotte pas, Alphonse.  C’est trop dur.”  None of them fancied an encounter with the grim giant who confronted them, his muscles braced and salient, his eyes gleaming with the gaudia certaminis, and his nostrils dilated as if they snuffed the battle.

So they made way for Guy and his charge to pass, only grinding out between their teeth the strange guttural blasphemies that characterize impotent Gallic wrath.

Mohun, a reserve scarcely leas formidable, stood by all the while, looking on lazily; he saw that his companion was more than equal to the emergency.

“I hope you have not been much annoyed,” Livingstone said, kindly.  “Where were you going to?  I shall be too happy to escort you, if you will allow me.”

She named the street, only a few hundred yards off, and tried to thank him gratefully, but her voice was broken and scarcely audible, and the blinding tears would rush into her eyes.  Poor child! it was very long since she had heard gentle, courteous words in her mother-tongue.  She recovered herself, however, during their short walk, and they had nearly reached her destination when Livingstone said, “Forgive me for being impertinent; I have no right to advise you; but I think you would find it better not to walk alone, often, at this hour.  There is always a chance of something disagreeable.”

He could see her blush painfully as she answered, “I have no one to accompany me.  I work hard at drawing and painting as long as there is light, and I had gone out to see if I could sell what I have done.  But I fear I am a very poor artist; no one would offer me as much as they had cost me.  And I tried at so many places!”

It was piteous to hear the heavy, heart-broken sigh.

“Perhaps I have better taste,” replied Livingstone.  “Those print-sellers are absurdly ignorant of what is good and anonymous.  At all events, they will interest me, as a memorial of to-night.  Will you give them to me?  I will promise not to be too critical.”

He drew the roll out of her hand as he spoke, replacing it by his note-case; and before she could open it or make any objection, he followed Mohun (for they had reached the artist’s door by this time), first raising his hat to her in adieu as courteously as he would have done to a reigning archduchess.

How much did the case contain?  Guy himself could hardly have told you.  But be sure the Recorder of his many misdeeds knew, and reckoned it to the uttermost farthing when he wrote down that one kind action on the credit side.