Bras-de-Fer had already breakfasted once; nevertheless he sat down and made almost as good play as his entertainer for about ten minutes, when they stopped simultaneously. Then Captain George threw himself back in his chair, loosened his belt, undid the two lower buttons of his heavily-laced grey _just au corps_, and passing the Medoc, now at low ebb, to his comrade, asked abruptly— “Have you found him?” “And brought him with me, my captain,” answered Bras-de-Fer. “He is at this moment waiting outside. ’Tis a queer lad, certainly. He was reading a Latin book when I came upon him. He would have no breakfast, nor even taste a pot of wine with me as we walked along. Bah! The young ones are not what they used to be in my time.” “I shouldn’t mind a few recruits of your sort still,” answered his captain, good-humouredly. “That thick head of yours is pretty strong, both inside and out; nevertheless, we must take them as we find them, and I should not like to miss a blade that could out-manœuvre poor Flanconnade. If he joins, I would give him the appointment. What think you, Bras-de-Fer? Would he like to be one of us? What did he say?” “Say!” repeated the veteran, “I couldn’t understand half he said—I can’t make him out, my captain. I tell you that I, Bras-de-Fer of the Grey Musketeers, am unable to fathom this smooth-faced stripling. Eyes like a girl’s, yet quick and true as a hawk’s; white, delicate hands, but a wrist of steel, that seems to move by machinery. Such science, too! and such style! Who taught him? Then he rambles so in his talk, and wept when I told him our fencing-master never spoke after that disengagement. Only a simple disengagement, my captain; he makes no secret of it. I asked him myself. And he wouldn’t taste wine—not a mouthful—not a drop—though I offered to treat him!” And Bras-de-Fer shook his head solemnly, with something of a monkey’s expression who has got a nut too hard to crack. Captain George cut short his friend’s reflections by calling for a servant. “There is a gentleman outside,” said he, when the lackey appeared. “Ask his pardon for keeping him waiting, and beg him to step in.” The well-drilled lackey, all politeness, threw the door open for the visitor, who entered with a diffident bow and a timid, hesitating step. Bras-de-Fer could not help remarking how much less assured was his manner now than when he crossed swords last night with the best fencer in the company. The Musketeers both rose at his entrance, and all three continued standing during the interview. Captain George scanned the new-comer from head to foot, and from foot to head, as a sergeant inspects a recruit. Its subject blushed painfully during the examination. Then the officer inquired, abruptly— “You wish to join the Musketeers? As a cadet, of course?” Something stern in the tone recalled the youth’s firmness, and he answered, boldly enough— “Under certain circumstances—yes.” “Your name?” “Eugène Beaudésir.” “Your age?”