There was a loud laugh at this, even among the enemy's backers. "Bah, the great pig!" ejaculated the girl above. "Spit him!" and she spat down on the whilom Hector--who made no great figure now. "Shall I bring you a slice of him, my dear?" asked my rakehelly friend, looking up and making his sword play round the shrinking wretch. "Just a tit-bit, my love?" he added persuasively. "A mouthful of white liver and caper sauce?" "Not for me, the beast!" the girl cried, amid the laughter of the yard. "Not a bit? If I warrant him tender? Ladies' meat?" "Bah! no!" and she stolidly spat down again. "Do you hear? The lady has no taste for you," the tormentor cried. "Pig of a Gascon!" And deftly sheathing his dagger, he seized the big coward by the ear, and turning him round, gave him a heavy kick which sent him spinning over a bucket, and down against the wall. There the bully remained, swearing and rubbing himself by turns; while the victor cried boastfully, "Enough of him. If anyone wants to take up his quarrel, Blaise Bure is his man. If not, let us have an end of it. Let someone find stalls for the gentlemen's horses before they catch a chill; and have done with it. As for me," he added, and then he turned to us and removed his hat with an exaggerated flourish, "I am your lordship's servant to command." I thanked him with a heartiness, half-earnest, half-assumed. His cloak was ragged, his trunk hose, which had once been fine enough, were stained, and almost pointless, He swaggered inimitably, and had led-captain written large upon him. But he had done us a service, for Jean had no further trouble about the horses. And besides one has a natural liking for a brave man, and this man was brave beyond question. "You are from Orleans," he said respectfully enough, but as one asserting a fact, not asking a question. "Yes," I answered, somewhat astonished, "Did you see us come in?" "No, but I looked at your boots, gentlemen," he replied. "White dust, north; red dust, south. Do you see?" "Yes, I see," I said, with admiration. "You must have been brought up in a sharp school, M. Bure." "Sharp masters make sharp scholars," he replied, grinning. And that answer I had occasion to remember afterwards. "You are from Orleans, also?" I asked, as we prepared to go in. "Yes, from Orleans too, gentlemen. But earlier in the day. With letters--letters of importance!" And bestowing something like a wink of confidence on us, he drew himself up, looked sternly at the stable-folk, patted himself twice on the chest, and finally twirled his moustaches, and smirked at the girl above, who was chewing straws. I thought it likely enough that we might find it hard to get rid of him. But this was not so. After listening with gratification to our repeated thanks, he bowed with the same grotesque flourish, and marched off as grave as a Spaniard, humming--