His dress, of almost primitive simplicity, so to speak, was composed of two shirts, breeches, and jacket, all of canvas, but so covered with spots of blood and grease, that it was impossible to recognise its original colour. He wore a leathern belt, from which hung on one side a case of crocodile skin, containing four knives and a bayonet; on the other, a large calabash, stopped with wax, and a hide bag containing bullets. He wore across his shoulders a small coat of fine canvas, rolled up and reduced to its smallest compass; and in lieu of shoes, boots made of untanned oxhide. His long hair, fastened with a _víbora_ skin, escaped from under a fur cap which covered his head, and was protected by a peak in front. His fusil, whose barrel was four and a half feet in length, could be easily recognized through the strange form of its stock, as turned out by Brachie, of Dieppe, who with Gélin, of Nantes, had the monopoly of manufacturing arms for the adventurers. This fusil was of the calibre of sixteen to the pound. The appearance of this man, thus armed and accoutred, had really something imposing and formidable about it. You instinctively felt yourself in face of a powerful nature, of a chosen organization, accustomed only to reckon on oneself, and which no danger was great enough to astound or even affect. While continuing to advance toward the bull, he took a side glance at the two horsemen; then, without paying any further attention to them, he whistled to his dogs, which at once gave up their pursuit of the herd, and after drawing a knife from his sheath, he began skinning the animal lying at his feet. At this moment the Count came up to his side. "Eh," he said to him in a sharp voice, "who are you, and what do you here?" The buccaneer, for he was one, raised his head, looked sarcastically at the man who addressed him so peremptorily, and then shrugged his shoulders with disdain. "Who I am?" he replied, mockingly; "You see that I am a buccaneer, and what I am doing. I am flaying a bull I have slain. What next?" "I want to know by what right you hunt on my land?" "Ah! This land is yours? I am very glad to hear it. Well, I am hunting here because I think proper. If that does not suit you, I feel sorry for it, my pretty gentleman." "What do you mean?" the Count continued, haughtily; "And how do you dare to assume such a tone with me?" "Probably, because it is the one that suits me best," the buccaneer replied, drawing himself up quickly; "go your road, my fine sir, and take some good advice; if you do not wish your handsome jerkin to be filled with broken bones within five minutes, do not trouble yourself about me more than I do about you, and leave me to attend to my business."