“I think that I shall be twenty at Saint Martin’s day.”

This was too much; the provost could no longer restrain himself.

“Ah! you are scoffing at the provostship, wretch! Messieurs the sergeants of the mace, you will take me this knave to the pillory of the Gr�ve, you will flog him, and turn him for an hour.

He shall pay me for it, t�te Dieu! And I order that the present judgment shall be cried, with the assistance of four sworn trumpeters, in the seven castellanies of the viscomty of Paris.”

The clerk set to work incontinently to draw up the account of the sentence.

“Ventre Dieu! ‘tis well adjudged!” cried the little scholar, Jehan Frollo du Moulin, from his corner.