his feet on land and his face in the water. Before he had time to pick
himself up, the populace had fallen on him: in one instant they had torn
away his epaulettes, his banner, and his coat, and would have torn him to
bits himself, had not Giorgio Pellegrino and Trenta Capelli taken him
under their protection, and giving him an arm on each side, defended him
in their turn against the people. Thus he crossed the square as a
prisoner where an hour before he had walked as a king.

His captors took him to the castle: he was pushed into the common prison,
the door was shut upon him, and the king found himself among thieves and
murderers, who, not knowing him, took him for a companion in crime, and
greeted him with foul language and hoots of derision.

A quarter of an hour later the door of the gaol opened and Commander
Mattei came in: he found Murat standing with head proudly erect and
folded arms. There was an expression of indefinable loftiness in this
half-naked man whose face was stained with blood and bespattered with
mud. Mattei bowed before him.

"Commander," said Murat, recognising his rank by his epaulettes, "look
round you and tell me whether this is a prison for a king."

Then a strange thing happened: the criminals, who, believing Murat their
accomplice, had welcomed him with vociferations and laughter, now bent
before his royal majesty, which had not overawed Pellegrino and Trenta
Capelli, and retired silently to the depths of their dungeon.

Misfortune had invested Murat with a new power.

Commander Mattei murmured some excuse, and invited Murat to follow him to