“I’d rather spit fire at the blabbermouth! You can tear him to bits as far as I’m concerned!” cried the girl. “There’s nothing disgusts me so much as a traitor!” The hooligans crowded round big Ernestine. They applauded her ironically; for they all knew that, once upon a time, she had been strongly suspected of having dealings with the snufflers; what they called “the dirty lot at the Pig’s Nest”. Silence fell once more. They could hear the rasp of the rope unrolling from a hand-winch attached to an enormous bucket. This was the primitive lift.

Moments passed. The hooligans had formed a teetering circle beneath the black hole where the bucket moved up and down.

“It goes, old Beard?” questioned Nibet, gazing upwards.

“It goes, old captain!”

“Brought the fuzzy game?”

“That’s what we’re sending down now!”

“That’s a bit of all right! Roll out the rabbit-trap!” Sailor now seized the trussed Jules from the bucket and hurled him onto the ground.

“Damaged goods that – eh?” he laughed evilly.

The Beadle, Beard, and Emilet were coming down in turn. The group below bent curiously over the prisoner.

He’s soft – that sort is!” cried Ernestine. And tapping him on the face with her foot, Big Ernestine tried to make Jules show signs of life. Beard dropped out of the bucket and stopped the game.

“Let’s see, Ernestine?... Stop it now!”

After gripping the hand of each comrade in turn, after hugging a whiskey bottle and draining it in a long draught, emptying it to the dregs, Beard flung it aside.

“Let’s get to work – no time to waste!... If we finish him off, we’ll have to get rid of him before morning!” Sailor lifted Jules with the aid of two comrades.

They propped him against a massive pillar of wood which supported the cellar roof. They bound their wretched victim to it with strong cords.

Meanwhile, Ernestine was unwinding the gag.

“Take your places on the tribunal!” commanded Nibet. “And you others, a glass of pick-me-up for the fellow!”The tonic intended to restore Jules to consciousness was brought by Mother Toulouche, in the form of a large earthen pot full of filthy, cold sewer-water. She dashed the bilge in the prisoner’s face.

Jules slowly opened his eyes and regained his wits, amidst an ominous silence. The band watched his return to life with evil smiles; they quietly watched his pallid face turn a livid green with terror.

The wretched creature could not utter a syllable. He stared wildly at those about him, his former friends, at those seated on the mock judgment bench who, crouching forward in their garish rags, were observing him with sardonic smiles. Nibet put a question.

“You hear and understand us, Jules?”

“Mercy!” howled the victim.

Nibet was indifferent to the cry.