could not have been worse stunned. He knew that the police officer summoned him to follow; but why? That he could not understand.
Ursus, too, was thrown into the most painful agitation, but he saw through matters pretty clearly. His thoughts flew to the jugglers and preachers,—his competitors,—to complaints made against the Green Box, against that delinquent the wolf, to his own affair with the three Bishopsgate commissioners; and who knows, perhaps—but that would be too dreadful—Gwynplaine's unbecoming and factious speeches touching the royal authority. He trembled violently. Dea was smiling.
Neither Gwynplaine nor Ursus uttered a word. They both had the same thought,—not to frighten Dea. It may have struck the wolf as well, for he ceased growling. True, Ursus did not loose him. Homo, however, was a prudent wolf when occasion required. Who is there who has not remarked this kind of intelligence in animals? It may be that to the extent to which a wolf can understand mankind he felt that he was an outlaw.
Gwynplaine rose. Resistance was useless, as he knew, for he remembered Ursus' words. He remained standing in front of the wapentake. The latter raised the iron staff from Gwynplaine's shoulder, and drawing it back, held it out straight in an attitude of command,—a constable's attitude which was well understood in those days by the people, and which expressed the following order: "Let this man, and no other, follow me. The rest remain where they are. Silence!" No curious followers were allowed. In all ages the police have had a taste for arrests of the kind. This description of seizure was termed sequestration of the person.
The wapentake turned round in one motion, like a piece of mechanism revolving on its own pivot, and
