"_Mai foi!_ you wear your tongue passably loose, _mon ami_. A night cat? No, worse luck. No pretty little kittens to chase round here. A jackal among _les cadores_? You have too many of that sort down there already, stripping the dead and the living, too. Still, let us not scandalize the profession, the calling of the jackal is a noble one when there is genius and _finesse_ to raise it from the _metier_ to the art. But where the jackal points the lion pounces. You call me the jackal. _Eh, bien j'accepte_--it is mine to point, but it is for you, Monsieur le Lion, to take the leap." "A truce to your riddles, and say what you've got to say--though why you can't come out with it openly, I can't conceive." "Find, then, my little meaning," whispered the chevalier, impressively. "In two words, you shall be _au courant_ with the affair. We have come here to push our fortune, but the jade flouts us, and ranks herself under the standard of the foe. Let us follow her thither. For you and for me there is neither North nor South, Federal nor Confederate. Soldiers of Fortune, we follow wherever glory leads the way, and victory fills the pocket. What of this last bagatelle of a victory to-day? We have escaped with our skins to-day; to-morrow we will loose them. No, _mon ami_, the South will win the day; so join we the Southern chivalry as becomes _chevaliers d'honneur_." "Why, you precious scoundrel! I always thought you somewhat of a puppy, but to propose this to me, an Englishman and a gentleman! Draw, you treacherous hound--draw, and defend yourself!" And the steel blade glistened like the sword of the avenging angel before the eyes of the astonished Hun. "_Sacre, mon Dieu!_ Has he gone mad?" was his sole reply, as with the practical skill of an accomplished _maitre d'armes_ his ready rapier was set, and parrying the lunges of his vexed opponent. Still, with muttered explanations, blaspheming ejaculations and apologies, intermingled with furious rallies, he sought to moderate the just wrath of St. Udo, till at last, hearing loud shouts and footsteps approaching, by a quick turn he evaded St. Udo's pass, and dashed his sword out of his hand high in the air. Ere St. Udo could stoop to recover it, the traitor dealt him a mighty blow over the head, which felled him to the ground, and the last remembrance he had was the taunting "_au revoir_" of the renegade as he plunged into the thicket and vanished from pursuit. When St. Udo recovered, he found himself surrounded by eager faces, and Thoms kneeling in the attitude of anxiety beside him, staring at him with intentness. "What's all this, colonel?" demanded an old officer. "Ha, by Jove! the rascal has escaped, has he?" cried St. Udo, getting up stiffly by the help of Thoms' shoulder. "Who--who? A Confederate?" was cried on all sides.