Citizen Fusilier made himself larger.

“What is prejudice?  I do not know.”

“I am an American myself,” said Frowenfeld, rising up with his face burning.

The citizen rose up also, but unruffled.

“My beloved young friend,” laying his hand heavily upon the other’s shoulder, “you are not.  You were merely born in America.”

But Frowenfeld was not appeased.

“Hear me through,” persisted the flatterer.  “You were merely born in America.  I, too, was born in America—­but will any man responsible for his opinion mistake me—­Agricola Fusilier—­for an American?”

He clutched his cane in the middle and glared around, but no person seemed to be making the mistake to which he so scornfully alluded, and he was about to speak again when an outcry of alarm coming simultaneously from Joseph and the marchande directed his attention to a lady in danger.

The scene, as afterward recalled to the mind of the un-American citizen, included the figures of his nephew and the new governor returning up the road at a canter; but, at the time, he knew only that a lady of unmistakable gentility, her back toward him, had just gathered her robes and started to cross the road, when there was a general cry of warning, and the marchande cried, “Garde choual!” while the lady leaped directly into the danger and his nephew’s horse knocked her to the earth!

Though there was a rush to the rescue from every direction, she was on her feet before any one could reach her, her lips compressed, nostrils dilated, cheek burning, and eyes flashing a lady’s wrath upon a dismounted horseman.  It was the governor.  As the crowd had rushed in, the startled horses, from whom the two riders had instantly leaped, drew violently back, jerking their masters with them and leaving only the governor in range of the lady’s angry eye.

“Mademoiselle!” he cried, striving to reach her.

She pointed him in gasping indignation to his empty saddle, and, as the crowd farther separated them, waved away all permission to apologize and turned her back.

“Hah!” cried the crowd, echoing her humor.

“Lady,” interposed the governor, “do not drive us to the rudeness of leaving—­”

“Animal, vous!” cried half a dozen, and the lady gave him such a look of scorn that he did not finish his sentence.

“Open the way, there,” called a voice in French.

It was Honore Grandissime.  But just then he saw that the lady had found the best of protectors, and the two horsemen, having no choice, remounted and rode away.  As they did so, M. Grandissime called something hurriedly to Frowenfeld, on whose arm the lady hung, concerning the care of her; but his words were lost in the short yell of derision sent after himself and his companion by the crowd.

Old Agricola, meanwhile, was having a trouble of his own.  He had followed Joseph’s wake as he pushed through the throng; but as the lady turned her face he wheeled abruptly away.  This brought again into view the bench he had just left, whereupon he, in turn, cried out, and, dashing through all obstructions, rushed back to it, lifting his ugly staff as he went and flourishing it in the face of Palmyre Philosophe.