The fellow spluttered in a fine fury, more or less assumed, I must believe. His oaths were of a sort which grated me, but having delivered himself of them he said: “I too serve the king. And I too, I’d have you know, am a gentleman. None of your Canadian half-breed seigneurs, but a gentleman of Gascony. Out with your sword, or I spit you!” “I’m very sorry,” I answered smoothly, “that I cannot fight with one of Vaurin’s cut-throats, for I perceive you to be a stout-hearted rascal who might give me a good bout. But as for the gentleman of Gascony, faith, my credulity will not stand so great a tax. From your accents, Monsieur, I could almost name the particular sty by the Bordeaux waterside which must claim the distinction of your birth.” As I had calculated, this insult brought it. My prod had struck the raw. With a choking curse the fellow sprang at me, naked handed, blind in his bull strength. I dropped one foot to the rear, met and stopped the rush by planting my left fist in his face, then gave him my right under his jaw, with the full thrust of my body, from the foot up. It was a beautiful trick, learned of an English prisoner at Montreal, who had trained me all one winter in the fistic art of his countrymen. My impetuous antagonist went backward over the anvil, and seemed in small haste to pick himself up. The spectators gaped at the strange tactics; and Nicole, as I bade him good-by, chuckled: “There’ll be trouble for this somewhere, Master Paul! Watch out sharp—and don’t go ‘round o’ nights without taking me along. Le Fûret is not nicknamed ‘The Ferret’ for nothing!” “All right, my friend,” said I; “when I want a guard I’ll send for you.” I went off toward Father Fafard’s, pleased with myself, pleased with the English captain who had taught me such a useful accomplishment, and pleased, I confess, with Vaurin’s minion for having afforded me such a fair chance to display it. Chapter XI Father Fafard The incident at the forge, as it seemed to me, was one to scatter effectually any rumours of my connection with Vaurin, and I congratulated myself most heartily upon it. It could not fail, I thought, to look well in Yvonne’s eyes. It confirmed me in my resolve to go to Canard that afternoon, and perhaps to Pereau, getting my uncle’s business off my hands, and not returning to De Lamourie Place till I might be sure that the circumstances had been heard and well digested there. Having this course settled in my mind, I passed the church, entered the gate between its flowering lilac-bushes, and hastened up the narrow path to Father Fafard’s door. Ere I could reach it the good priest stood upon his threshold to greet me, both hands out, his kind grey eyes half closed by the crowding smiles that creased his round and ruddy face. “My boy!” he said. “I have looked for you all the morning. Why didn’t you come to me last night?”