The house of the Huguenot merchant was a tall, narrow building standing at the corner of the Rue St. Martin and the Rue de Biron.  It was four stories in height, grim and grave like its owner, with high peaked roof, long diamond-paned windows, a frame-work of black wood, with gray plaster filling the interstices, and five stone steps which led up to the narrow and sombre door.  The upper story was but a warehouse in which the trader kept his stock, but the second and third were furnished with balconies edged with stout wooden balustrades.  As the uncle and the nephew sprang out of the caleche, they found themselves upon the outskirts of a dense crowd of people, who were swaying and tossing with excitement, their chins all thrown forwards and their gaze directed upwards.  Following their eyes, the young officer saw a sight which left him standing bereft of every sensation save amazement.

From the upper balcony there was hanging head downwards a man clad in the bright blue coat and white breeches of one of the king’s dragoons.  His hat and wig had dropped off, and his close-cropped head swung slowly backwards and forwards a good fifty feet above the pavement.  His face was turned towards the street, and was of a deadly whiteness, while his eyes were screwed up as though he dared not open them upon the horror which faced them.  His voice, however, resounded over the whole place until the air was filled with his screams for mercy.

Above him, at the corner of the balcony, there stood a young man who leaned with a bent back over the balustrades, and who held the dangling dragoon by either ankle.  His face, however, was not directed towards his victim, but was half turned over his shoulder to confront a group of soldiers who were clustering at the long, open window which led out into the balcony.  His head, as he glanced at them, was poised with a proud air of defiance, while they surged and oscillated in the opening, uncertain whether to rush on or to retire.

Suddenly the crowd gave a groan of excitement.  The young man had released his grip upon one of the ankles, and the dragoon hung now by one only, his other leg flapping helplessly in the air.  He grabbed aimlessly with his hands at the wall and the wood-work behind him, still yelling at the pitch of his lungs.

“Pull me up, son of the devil, pull me up!” he screamed.  “Would you murder me, then?  Help, good people, help!”

“Do you want to come up, captain?” said the strong clear voice of the young man above him, speaking excellent French, but in an accent which fell strangely upon the ears of the crowd beneath.

“Yes, sacred name of God, yes!”

“Order off your men, then.”

“Away, you dolts, you imbeciles!  Do you wish to see me dashed to pieces?  Away, I say!  Off with you!”

“That is better,” said the youth, when the soldiers had vanished from the window.  He gave a tug at the dragoon’s leg as he spoke, which jerked him up so far that he could twist round and catch hold of the lower edge of the balcony.  “How do you find yourself now?” he asked.