Around a ponderous old table of black oak, illuminated by a dozen wax candles and covered with dishes and flagons and glasses, sat four men. At the head, with his braided scarlet coat open from the neck, sat a fat, red-faced, big-moustachioed officer, whom Jack recognized at once as the blusterous commissary from whom he had coaxed such valuable information at Olmedo. At the foot sat a French captain, who was already half-drunk; on the other side was a young lieutenant, with pink cheeks. With his back to the door there was a man in Spanish dress, who at that moment beckoned forward the tall servant to fill the captain’s empty glass. As the man moved round the table, Jack caught the glitter of Perez’ one eye, and at the same instant recognized the seated Spaniard as Miguel Priego himself. Listening, Jack was amused to find that Commissary Gustave Taberne had lost nothing of his braggadocio. "Parbleu, Señor Don What-do-you-call-yourself, this is wine of the right sort. Nothing in this world is so soul-satisfying as good Valdepenas after a hard day’s work. Mind you, I say ’after’. I’m not like Captain Horace Marie Etienne d’Echaubroignes yonder, who’ll drink in bed, on horseback, or in a pig-stye—it’s all one to him. No; the emperor would call me a pig if I got drunk before my work was over. I can drink a gallon without staggering, and have a bottle at my hand without touching it; but when my duty is done—ah ça! then I can fill my skin in comfort, and sing a song with any man." The long-named captain scowled at the reference to himself, bent forward over the table, and stuttered: "Monsieur l’inten—l’intendant, do you mean that for a—a reflection?" "Not at all, not at all, monsieur le capitaine. It was a compliment—to your versatility and your—h’m!—capacity." "Eh bien!" rejoined the captain, lifting his glass unsteadily, "if you mean it that way—" The commissary winked at Miguel. "J’ai fait un bouquet pour ma mie, Un bouquet blanc," he hummed. "Tiens! Songs like that suit a gay young bachelor like you better than a man of my age, with a wife and family. Come, Señor Don Something-or-other, sing us one of your Spanish songs—a serenade such as your gallants sing by night under their lady’s window. Tol-lol-di-rol! Come now—sing up." "Really, monsieur, after hearing your excellent voice, I do not feel able to enter into competition with you," said Miguel stiffly. "Ah bah! Allons! you are still in our debt. You did us a good service to-day, in truth; but remember, we found your lady-love for you yesterday. Ohé! her eyes, her cheeks, parbleu! I envy you the lovely—how does she call herself—la belle Juanita? Tol-lol-di-rol! Chantez, mon ami." "We Spaniards are not accustomed to discuss such matters in mixed company," said Miguel, still more irritably. "We Spaniards! Par exemple! I’m not a Spaniard; nor are you, my friend, to judge by your reception in the Spaniards’ houses to-day."