"No, my good man, I didn't stoop to that. He was on horseback, carrying munitions of war to our enemies. I took him by one leg and, stretching him at my feet, I left him for dead and seized his convoy." "Which consisted of powder and ball?" queried Bois-Doré, unable to refrain from laughing inwardly at the absurd boasting of the man whom he had overturned with a kick, and at the remembrance of that famous stock of munitions of war, consisting of children's toys. "It was a good capture!" replied the captain. "But we have talked enough, old jabberer! Go downstairs and have an eye to everything." Bois-Doré, relegated to his ovens, was compelled to leave Mario, whom the captain detained. As he left the room he cast a glance at his son: a glance of intense apprehension, which the child returned with one of the utmost confidence. He felt that Macabre was not ill-disposed toward him. "Now, my boy," said the captain, "come here and tell me, if you can, who you are!" "Faith, I don't know anything about it; captain," replied Mario, who had not had time as yet to forget the gypsy mode of speech; "I was stolen or picked up on the road somewhere by the dark-skinned devils called Egyptians." "What can you do?" "Three fine things," replied Mario, opportunely remembering La Flèche's lofty maxims: "fast, watch, and run; with that we can go a long way and get out of any scrape." "He's a sharp boy," said Macabre, glancing at his lieutenant, who, to display his ill-humor, had turned his back on him, sitting astride his chair, his head and hands resting on the back, and his side to the fire. Macabre considered his position disrespectful, and told him so in cynical terms. Saccage rose without speaking and left the room. Mario observed everything, and the discord between the two leaders seemed to him a good omen. He determined to take advantage of it, if possible, and if opportunity offered. Macabre resumed the conversation with him. "How does it happen," he said, "that I didn't see you at Brilbault last night?" Mario was not long embarrassed by that question. "I wasn't there," he said; "I was collecting chickens in the neighborhood, just to save them from the foxes and the pip." "Do you know how to steal chickens? Well, that is a natural accomplishment which may be very useful. But tell me if the Spaniard finished his dying?" "Monsieur d'Alvimar?" said Mario, beginning to understand Pilar's story, and no longer to look upon it as a dream. "Yes, yes," said Macabre, "that dog of a Papist who turned my stomach with his prayers!" "He died this morning." "He did well, the lunatic! And what about Sancho? He's much more of a man; bigoted as he is, he understands matters. Where is he now?" "He is hiding." "Why doesn't he join me here?" "As I told you, you are in danger here, and he knows it." "What danger? Will old Pignoux betray us?" "No, the poor man doesn't know anything at all about it; what could he do against you?"