"Et patati, et patata!" rapped in the big sergeant. "For God's sake, Chameau, what kind of milk is this to turn a man's stomach?" The chorus drowned his growls, and the bowman continued: "Sur la plus haute branche Le rossignol chantait, Chante, rossignol, chante, Toi qui as le coeur gai . . . Chante, rossignol, chante, Toi qui as le coeur gai; Tu as le coeur a rire, Moi je l'ai--t a pleurer. . . ." "Gr-r-r--" As the song ended, the sergeant spat contemptuously over the gunwale. "La-la-la, rossignol! et la-la-la, rosier!" he mimicked. "We are not _rosieres_, my friend." "The song is true Canayan, m'sieur, and your comrades appear to like it." "Par exemple! Listen, Monsieur Chameau, to something more in their line." He inflated his huge lungs and burst into a ditty of his own: "C'est dans la ville de Bordeaux Qu'est arrive trois beaux vaissaux-- Qu'est arrive trois beaux vaissaux: Les matelots qui sont dedans, Vrai Dieu, sont de jolis galants." The man had a rich baritone voice, not comparable indeed with the bowman's tenor, yet not without quality; but he used it affectedly, and sang with a simper on his face. His face, brick red in hue, was handsome in its florid way; but John, watching the simper, found it detestable. "C'est une dame de Bordeaux Qu'est amoureuse d'un matelot--" Here he paused, and a few soldiers took up the refrain half-heartedly: "--Va, ma servante, va moi chercher Un matelot pour m'amuser." The song from this point became indecent, and set the men in the nearer boats laughing. At its close a few clapped their hands. But it was not a success, and the brick red darkened on the singer's face; darkened almost to purple when a voice in the distance took up the air and returned it mockingly, caricaturing a _roulade_ to the life with the help of one or two ridiculous gracenotes: at which the soldiers laughed again. "I think, m'sieur," suggested the bowman politely, "they do not know it very well, or they would doubtless have been heartier." But the sergeant had heaved himself up with a curse and a lurch which sent the canoe rocking, and was scanning the boats for the fellow who had dared to insult him. "How the devil can a man sing while that dog keeps barking!" he growled, and let out a kick at the limp legs of the young Highlander. Another growl answered. It came from the wounded prisoner behind John--the man who had been muttering in Gaelic. "It is a coward you are, big man. Go on singing your sculduddery, and let the lad die quiet!" The sergeant scowled, not understanding. John, whose blood was up, obligingly translated the reproof into French. "He says--and I also--that you are a cowardly bully; and we implore you to sing in tune, another time. Par pitie, monsieur, ne scalpez-vous pas les demi-morts!"