My voice caught him. “_Tiens!_ It’s Master Paul,” he cried, and straightway thrust back to shore, calmly ignoring threats and bribes alike. As I sprang aboard and grasped Ba’tiste’s gaunt claw I expected nothing less than a second bout with my adversary of the morning. But he, while I talked with the ferryman of this and that, according to the wont of old acquaintances long apart, kept a discreet silence at the other end of the scow, where, as I casually noted, he stood with folded arms looking out over the water. A scarlet feather stuck foppishly in his dark cap became him very well; and I could not but account him a proper figure of a man, though somewhat short. Presently, at a pause in our talk, he turned and approached us. To my astonishment he wore a civil smile. “I was in the wrong this morning, Monsieur Grande,” he said, in a hearty, frank voice such as I like, though well I know it is no certificate of an honest heart. “I interfered in a gentleman’s private business; and though your rebuke was something more sharp than I could have wished, I deserved it. Allow me to make my apologies.” Now it is one of my weaknesses that I can scarce resist the devil himself if he speaks me fair and seeks to make amends. “Well,” said I reluctantly, “we will forget the incident, monsieur, if it please you. I cannot but honour a brave man always; and you could not but speak up for your captain, he not being by to speak for himself. My opinion of him I will keep behind my teeth out of deference to your presence.” “That’s fair, monsieur,” said he, apparently quite content. “And I will keep my nose out of another gentleman’s business. My way lies to Canard. May I hope for the honour of your company on the road—since fate, however rudely, has thrown us together?” Another weakness of mine is to be uselessly frank—to resent even politic concealment. Here was one whom I knew for an enemy. I spoke him the plain truth with a childish carelessness. “I have affairs both at Canard and at Pereau,” said I. “But I know not if I shall get so far as the latter to-night.” “Ah!” said he, “I might have known as much. Father La Garne will lie at Pereau to-night, and I am to meet Captain Vaurin there.” I turned upon him fiercely, but his face was so devoid of malice that my resentment somehow stuck in my throat. Seeing it in my face, however, he made haste to apologize. “Pardon me, monsieur, if I imply too much, or again trespass upon your private matters,” he exclaimed courteously. “But you will surely allow that, in view of your late visit to Piziquid, my mistake is a not unnatural one.” I was forced to acknowledge the justice of this. “But be pleased to remember that it is none the less a mistake,” said I with emphasis, “and one that is peculiarly distasteful to me.”