Cabbage Jock was immensely broad at the shoulders. He stooped slightly, so that his long arms fell below his knees when he stood erect. His mouth was slightly open, but so large in itself that a banana could easily have been inserted sideways without touching the wicks. There was a look of droll simplicity on the lad’s face (he was apparently about twenty) which reminded one of the pictures of Lob-Lie-by-the-Fire, or the Brownie of Scottish fireside tales.

Yet for one so simple he had answered with strange readiness. There was a quick flash of the eye as he took in the two men before him.

“What may you be?” demanded the Professor of Eloquence.

“A he-goat upon the mountains, comely in the going!” said the lout, in very good French. The learned man of the Sorbonne noted at once that he quoted (and mixed) words of the Genevan Version common among the Huguenots.

“He speaks French, this good lad?” he asked, turning to Claire.

“Yes, when it pleases him, which is not always though indeed he always obeys me. Is it not so, Jock?”

“My name is not Jock! Nowise as you well do know. I am called Blastus of the Zamzummims! Against all Armenians, Hussites, Papishers, Anabaptists, Leaguers, and followers of the high, the low, and the middle way, I lift up my heel. I am a bird of fair plumage on the mountains of Zepher. I fly I mount I soar ”

“Go and find four horses,” said his mistress; “two of them good and strong, one Spanish jennet for me, one Flanders mare for yourself and the saddle-bags.”

The Bird of Fair Plumage scratched his long reddish locks in a sort of comic perplexity.

“Am I to steal them or pay for them?” he said.

“Pay, of course,” said his mistress, scandalised.

“That will leave our purse very light the purse that was your father’s. It were easier these days, and also more just to spoil the Egyptians. The lion-like man of Moab, which is the Duke of Guise, walketh about like the devil roaring (as sayeth Peter), and because of the barricades there are many good horses tied by their bridles at the gates of the city masterless, all of them.”

“Pay for them, do you hear?” said Claire; “do not stand arguing with your master’s daughter. I thought you had learned that long ago.”

Blastus of the Zamzummims went out grumbling to himself.

“At least she said nothing about cheating or clipped money, or bad money or money from the Pope’s mint. I will buy, and I will pay for all. Yes yes but ”

It was obvious that Jock of the Cabbage’s hope of spoiling Egypt had not been properly rooted out of his mind even by his mistress’s commands.

A strange soul dwelt in this Jock of the Cabbage. He was the son of a reputable Scottish refugee at Geneva, from whom he had sucked in, as a frog does the autumn rains, the strongest and purest Calvinistic doctrine. He had, however, early perceived that his ludicrous personal appearance prevented him from obtaining eminence as a preacher.

He had therefore chosen another way of being useful.

John Stirling had deliberately made himself Cabbage Jock which is to say, “Jean-aux-Choux,” and by that name was famous alike in the camps of Henri of Navarre, and in making sport for the “mignons” of the King of France. But it was not known to many alive that a mind clear and logical, a heart full of the highest determinations, were hidden away under the fool’s motley and the tattered cloak of the gangrel man.

Only to Francis Agnew had the Fool talked equally and with unbound heart. Even Claire did not guess what lay beneath this folly of misapplied texts and mirth-provoking preachments. There can be no better mask for real fanaticism than the pretence of it. And whereas Francis Agnew had been a gentleman and a diplomat always, his henchman, Jock the Fool, was a fanatic of the purest strain, adding thereto a sense of humour and probably a strain of real madness as well.

“Come up hither, Jean-aux-Choux!” cried the lads on the barricades. “Turn a somersault for us, Cabbage Jock!” shouted a fellow-countryman, on his way to preferment in the Scots Guard, who in the meanwhile was filling up his time by fighting manfully against the King’s troops.

“Lick the tip of your nose, Jock!” roared yet a third; “waggle your ears! Ah, well done! Now jest for us, and we will give you a good drink Macon of the fourth year as much as you can take down at a draught. This Guisarding is dry work.”

The streets were full of excited men, cheering for Holy Faith and the Duke of Guise. They cried that they were going to kill the King, and make that most Catholic Prince, the Head of the League, King in his stead.

The Protestants in Paris had fled or hidden. There were great fears of a second St. Bartholomew. But those who remembered the first, said that if that had been intended, there would be a deal less noise and a deal more private whetting of daggers and sword-blades.

Once the Professor of Eloquence left them for a moment in order to run upstairs to tell his housekeeper and her husband that they were to hold his house against all authority save that of the King, and not yield too soon even to that. He might be away some time, he said.

The Abbe John, whose housekeeping was of a desultory sort consisting chiefly in going to see his uncle, the Cardinal d’Albret, when he was in need of money or of the ghostly counsel of a prince of the Church made no preparations for flight, save to feel in his breeches pocket to make sure that he had his gold safely there.

“My creditors can wait, or importune my uncle, who will have them thrown in the Seine for their pains,” said the young student of the Sorbonne easily; “and as for my dear gossips, they will easily enough console themselves. Women are like cats. As often as they fall, they fall upon their feet!”

It was a strange Paris which they passed through that day these four. The Professor of Eloquence went first, wearing the great green cloak of his learned faculty, with its official golden collar and cuffs of dark fur.

That day Paris was not only making the history of the present, but was unconsciously prophesying the future her own future. Whenever, after that, the executive grew weak and the people strong, up came the paving-stones, and down in a heap went the barrels, charettes, scaffoldings, street-doors. It was not only the Day of the Barricades, but the first day of many barricades. Indeed, Paris learned the lesson of power so well, that it became her settled conviction that what she did to-day France would homologate to-morrow. It was only the victory of the “rurals” in the late May of 1871 which taught Paris her due place, as indeed the capital of France, but not France itself.

Dr. Anatole’s cloak was certainly a protection to them as they went. Caps were doffed as to one of the Sixteen that great council of nine from each of the sixteen districts of Paris, whose power over the people made the real Catholic League.

Dr. Anatole explained matters to Claire as they went.

“They have long wanted a figure-head, these shop-keepers and booth-hucksters,” he said bitterly. “The Cardinal leads them cunningly, and between guile and noise they have so intoxicated Guise that he will put his head in the noose, jump off, and hang himself. This King Henry of Valois is a contemptible dog enough, as all the world knows. But he is a dog which bites without barking, and that is a dangerous breed. If I were Guise, instead of promenading Paris between the Queen-Mother’s chamber and the King’s palace of the Louvre, I would get me to my castle of Soissons with all speed, and there arm and drill all the gentlemen-varlets and varlet-gentlemen that ever came out of Lorraine. There would I wait, with twenty eyes looking out every way across the meadows, and a hundred at least in the direction of Paris. I would have cannons primed and matches burning. I would lay in provisions to serve a year in case of siege. That is what I should do, were I Duke of Guise and Henry of Valois’ enemy!”

At the Orleans gate Jean-aux-Choux, in waiting with the horses (bought, stolen, or strayed), heard the conclusion of the Professor’s exposition.

“Let Wolf Guise eat Wolf Valois, or Wolf Valois dine off Wolf Guise so much the better for the Sheep of the Fold,” he commented freely, as became his cap-and-bells, which in these days had more liberty of prophecy than the wisdom of the wisest.