He shouted; no one appeared at the moment, but, as he withdrew his foot from the stirrup preparatory to dismounting, the figure of a young man emerged from a side-street on his right and crossed the cobbles towards the inn. Mr Trenchard was not sure that his voice had evoked him, but as he looked very shabby he hailed him again in his resolute tones. “Hi! my good fellow, come and hold my horse! I shall be out in a minute.” He swung out of the saddle as he spoke, and when he turned, with the reins in his hand, was astounded to find the shabby young man regarding him with what he instantly characterised to himself as “a d——d insolent French stare.” He looked very handsome, rather ill, and at the moment decidedly quarrelsome. “You want me to hold your horse!” he exclaimed in tones of mingled anger and astonishment. Trenchard attributed this resentment to the form rather than to the nature of the request, since the newcomer seemed by no means too prosperous to be above acceding to it. “I beg your pardon, citizen,” he said, with scarcely veiled sarcasm. “I forgot that I was not giving you your proper title. I assure you that I meant no disrespect to you nor to the French nation—but if you will not hold her, will you tell me where I can find a citizen who will?” Instead of being further irritated by this somewhat unwise address the shabby young man appeared mollified. The frown disappeared, and, suddenly smiling an easy smile as one who is amused at an idea of his own, he came nearer and put a hand on the bridle. His other arm, as Trenchard now remarked, he carried in a sling beneath his well-worn coat. “There is no need; I will hold her myself, citizen traveller,” he said with a composure not unmixed with the air of one conferring a favour. Nor was his French, even to the ear of a foreigner, the French of the lower classes. Trenchard swept a hasty, half-puzzled glance over him, and went into the tavern. Outside Louis de Saint-Ermay, who loved all horses, stood with her bridle over his arm and talked to the Englishman’s mare. “Was I not a fool, ma belle, to be angry? But it was startling, confess now,” he said, stroking her muzzle. “I hope your master will be generous to a poor one-armed devil. And are you not to get anything yourself?” The mare, pleased by the voice, began to sniff at him, and finally dropped her nose on to his left shoulder. Louis winced, and, smiting her softly under the chin, induced her to remove this mark of favour, on which she searched his pockets for apples, and the Vicomte, whistling idly, looked at her beautiful lines and wished that he and Gilbert had a couple of steeds like her in place of their own broken-down hacks. Presently out came the mare’s rider again, tapping his booted legs with his riding-whip.