“Take care!” repeated the Netherlander, warningly, this time translating the look. “You’re a born fool, Jean, to tempt the devil in him.” “Fool!” cried Jean. “Who meddled with him first? He kicked my casque out of his way yesterday, and set me to work cleaning and straightening it out this morning. As to running for water when it’s too late, he’ll think so too some day when Señor Inique catches him, and he gets down on his knees to beg for life, or the Marquis of Villenos’s friends corner him. He needn’t think he’s thought less a villain by us Frenchmen than by his own countryfolks.” Here the man-at-arms stopped to take breath and glower at Señor De Ladron, who lifting in his feet, walked coolly over, opposite the first, saying, with a smile on his face, “Come, come, there is no use in comrades quarreling. Do you suppose I knew it was your casque? Give me your hand, and let’s make it up.” The soldier looked down distrustfully at his slight enemy, but not being able to make up his mind what to do at this unexpected proposal, hesitatingly laid his broad palm in Hilo’s. “That’s as it should be,” said a shrunken little cannonier, perched on his gun. “Hey! I remember how we shook hands all round at St. German-en-Laye. You see, we had been fighting like mad at Montcontour, and when one cools it isn’t pleasant to think you’ve knocked on the head your old chum at bird-nesting, and the like, only because he differs from you a little when grown up.” “So you fetch water!” interrupted Hilo, mockingly, half to the speaker and half to Jean, whose fingers suddenly wrenched back forced him to stamp and foam with rage and pain while struggling to loosen the iron hold of the speaker. “Sacrè! Devil!” he stammered, “let go; my wrist is out of joint.” “It will be worse for you if you don’t recant,” muttered our Don, speaking faster than before, and holding a dagger to the side of his throat. “Stop!” cried two or three men-at-arms, springing up, “that is not fair play. We are Frenchmen, not cut-throats, here.” Capt. Carlo merely grinned in his usual agreeable fashion. “Don’t bite!” cried Hilo fiercely to his prisoner, drawing back his hand to strike. And, perhaps, as that amiable young gentleman was in no wise particular in such matters, and took no heed of the interruption, Hilo’s hand might have been the last bit of flesh held between the Frenchman’s teeth for evermore, (as the raven would say.) But the officer on duty came down the deck at this crisis, demanding the cause of the disturbance. “Ha! _you_, sir?” he cried, directly he caught sight of the chief actor, as if he might have guessed as much. “I order you under arrest. Give up your dagger.” Señor de Ladron faced his superior with an audacious smile, saying, “You jest?” “Noose that rope,” ordered the lieutenant, purple with fury. “Close around, men; we will hang up this mutineer without trial.”