Wouvermans is said to have been very much puzzled by a figure in one of his pictures, which, notwithstanding all his efforts, he could never _keep down_ (as painters express it). Whatever he did, that one figure was always salient, and more prominent than the artist intended; nor was it till he had half blotted it out, that he discovered its original defect was being too large. Something like Wouvermans' figure, the freebooter I speak of, stood conspicuous amongst the others, from the Herculean proportion of his limbs; but he had, in addition, other qualities to distinguish him from the rest. His brow was broad, and of that peculiar form to which physiognomists have attached the idea of a strong determined spirit; at the same time, the clear sparkle of his blue Norman eye bespoke an impetuous, but not a depraved mind. A deep scar was apparent on his left cheek; and the wound which had been its progenitor, was most probably the cause of a sneering turn in the corner of his mouth, which, with a bold expression of daring confidence, completed the mute history that his face afforded, of a life spent in arms, or well, or ill, as circumstances prompted,--an unshrinking heart, which dared every personal evil, and a bright but unprincipled mind, which followed no dictates but the passions of the moment. He was now in his gayest mood, and holding a horn in his hand, trolled forth an old French ditty, seeming confident of pleasing, or perhaps careless whether he pleased or not. "Thou'rt an ass, Robin, thou'rt an ass, To think that great men be More gay than I that lie on the grass Under the greenwood tree. I tell thee no, I tell thee no, The Great are slaves to their gilded show. Now tell me, Robin, tell me, Are the ceilings of gay saloons So richly wrought as yon sky we see, Or their glitter so bright as the moon's? I tell thee no, I tell thee no, The Great are slaves to their gilded show. Say not nay, Robin, say not nay! There is never a heart so free, In the vest of gold, and the palace gay, As in buff 'neath the forest tree. I tell thee yea, I tell thee yea, The Great were made for the poor man's prey." So sang the owner of the buff jerkin, and his song met with more or less applause from his companions, according to the particular humour of each. One only amongst the freebooters seemed scarcely to participate in the merriment. He had drunk as deeply as the rest, but he appeared neither gay, nor stupid, nor sleepy; and while the tall Norman sang, he cast, from time to time, a calm sneering glance upon the singer, which showed no especial love, either for the music, or musician. "You sing about prey," said he, as the other concluded the last stanza of his ditty--"You sing about prey, and yet you are no great falcon, after all; if we may judge from to-day."