Louise looked at her husband with an inquiring glance, not very well knowing whether to take his speech seriously, or merely as a jest; but there was nothing mirthful in the countenance of Monsieur Marteville, who, out of humour with his fair lady for persisting to accompany him, was in no mood for jesting. At this moment a whistle was heard in the wood, so like the note of a bird, that Louise was deceived, and would have taken no farther notice of the sound, had not her companion applied his hand to his lips and imitated it exactly. "What is that?" demanded Louise, upon whose mind a thousand undefined suspicions were crowding fast: "What noise is that in the wood?" "It's only a _pivert_," replied the Norman with a grim smile, in the effort of which the scar upon his lip drew the corner of his mouth almost into his eye. "A _pivert_!" replied Louise: "No, no, that is not the cry of a woodpecker--you are cheating me." "Well, you will see," replied Marteville; "I'll make him come out." So saying, he repeated the same peculiar whistle, and then drawing in his rein, shook himself in the saddle, loosened his sword in the sheath, and laid his hand on one of his holsters, as a man who prepares for an encounter, of the event of which he is not quite certain whether it will be for peace or war. His whistle was again returned, and a moment after the form of a man was seen protruding itself through the trees that crowned the high bank under which they stood. His rusty iron morion, his still rustier cuirass, his weather-beaten countenance and dingy apparel, formed altogether an appearance so similar to the trunks of the trees amongst which he stood, that he would have been scarcely distinguishable, had it not been for the effort to push his way through the lower branches, the rustling of which, and a few falling stones forced over the edge of the rock at his approach, drew the eye more particularly to the spot where he appeared. In his hand he carried a firelock, which, by a natural impulse, was pointed at the Norman the moment he perceived a doublet of blue velvet--as the fowling-piece of a sportsman is instinctively carried to his shoulder, on the rising of a partridge or a grouse. But Monsieur Marteville was prepared for all such circumstances; and drawing the pistol which hung at his saddle-bow, and which, if one might judge by length, would carry a mile at least, he pointed directly towards the rusty gentleman above described, crying out, "_Eh bien, l'ami! Eh bien!_ Do you shoot your friends like woodcocks? or have you forgotten me?" "_Nom de Dieu!_" cried the man above: "_Je vous en demande mille pardons, et mille, Monsieur le Capitaine._ I'll come down to you directly. Christi! I had nearly given you a ball! But I'll come down!"