“Who gave us leave, do you say?  What leave?  This is communal land, free to all.”

The sergeant laughed unpleasantly, and came on, his troop following.

“There is,” said a voice at Pantaloon’s elbow, “no such thing as communal land in the proper sense in all M. de La Tour d’Azyr’s vast domain.  This is a terre censive, and his bailiffs collect his dues from all who send their beasts to graze here.”

Pantaloon turned to behold at his side Andre-Louis in his shirt-sleeves, and without a neckcloth, the towel still trailing over his left shoulder, a comb in his hand, his hair half dressed.

“God of God!” swore Pantaloon.  “But it is an ogre, this Marquis de La Tour d’Azyr!”

“I have told you already what I think of him,” said Andre-Louis.  “As for these fellows you had better let me deal with them.  I have experience of their kind.”  And without waiting for Pantaloon’s consent, Andre-Louis stepped forward to meet the advancing men of the marechaussee.  He had realized that here boldness alone could save him.

When a moment later the sergeant pulled up his horse alongside of this half-dressed young man, Andre-Louis combed his hair what time he looked up with a half smile, intended to be friendly, ingenuous, and disarming.

In spite of it the sergeant hailed him gruffly:  “Are you the leader of this troop of vagabonds?”

“Yes... that is to say, my father, there, is really the leader.”  And he jerked a thumb in the direction of M. Pantaloon, who stood at gaze out of earshot in the background.  “What is your pleasure, captain?”

“My pleasure is to tell you that you are very likely to be gaoled for this, all the pack of you.”  His voice was loud and bullying.  It carried across the common to the ears of every member of the company, and brought them all to stricken attention where they stood.  The lot of strolling players was hard enough without the addition of gaolings.

“But how so, my captain?  This is communal land free to all.”

“It is nothing of the kind.”

“Where are the fences?” quoth Andre-Louis, waving the hand that held the comb, as if to indicate the openness of the place.

“Fences!” snorted the sergeant.  “What have fences to do with the matter?  This is terre censive.  There is no grazing here save by payment of dues to the Marquis de La Tour d’Azyr.”

“But we are not grazing,” quoth the innocent Andre-Louis.

“To the devil with you, zany!  You are not grazing!  But your beasts are grazing!”

“They eat so little,” Andre-Louis apologized, and again essayed his ingratiating smile.

The sergeant grew more terrible than ever.  “That is not the point.  The point is that you are committing what amounts to a theft, and there’s the gaol for thieves.”