In the belfry of this court-house, the bell was ringing to call the Jurats together for a meeting of the States.

A monstrous tin pan would have yielded as much assonance.

Walking down towards the Vier Marchi the lad gleefully recalled the humour of a wag who, some days before, had imitated the sound of the bell with the words: "Chicane--chicane! Chicane--chicane!" The native had, as he thought, suffered somewhat at the hands of the twelve Jurats of the Royal Court, whom his vote had helped to elect, and this was his revenge--so successful that, for generations, when the bell called the States or the Royal Court together, it said in the ears of the Jersey people--thus insistent is apt metaphor: "Chicane--chicane! Chicane--chicane!" As the lad came down to the town, trades-people whom he met touched their hats to him, and sailors and soldiers saluted respectfully.

In this regard the Bailly himself could not have fared better.

It was not due to the fact that the youth came of an old Jersey family, nor by reason that he was genial and handsome, but because he was a midshipman of the King's navy home on leave; and these were the days when England's sailors were more popular than her soldiers.
He came out of the Vier Marchi into La Grande Rue, along the stream called the Fauxbie flowing through it, till he passed under the archway of the Vier Prison, making towards the place where the child had snatched the hat from the head of the Bailly.
Presently the door of a cottage opened, and the child came out, followed by her mother.
The young gentleman touched his cap politely, for though the woman was not fashionably dressed, she was distinguished in appearance, with an air of remoteness which gave her a kind of agreeable mystery.
"Madame Landresse--" said the young gentleman with deference.
"Monsieur d'Avranche--" responded the lady softly, pausing.
"Did the Bailly make a stir?
I saw the affair from the hill, through my telescope," said young d'Avranche, smiling.
"My little daughter must have better manners," responded the lady, looking down at her child reprovingly yet lovingly.
"Or the Bailly must--eh, Madame ?" replied d'Avranche, and, stooping, he offered his hand to the child.