Before Martin could answer, saying, perhaps more than was wise, I cut in with a curt, "Yes." But his curiosity was still unsatisfied. "And are there many more of you?" "My friend, we asked a question." "And I another." "You are impertinent." "And you a dolt! What hedgerow bred you? Don't you see the place might not have room for you all? Are there more of you?" "No." "Then your master has the fewer clods. How far have you ridden to-day?" "Come, come," I said impatiently, "that, at least, has nothing to do with how many beds there are at an inn. Where is the Star of Dauphiny?" "There's no such place," he answered coolly. "No such place?" "No. Ah ha! Now you're civil, my stout clod-thumper. No such place. Fifteen years ago it became the Star of Provence, and since then it has been the host of heaven, but with none of the angels. Now, with the Dauphin's marriage to his three years' baby of a wife, it is the turn of the Flemings, and you'll find the Star of Flanders on the right hand round the second curve of the street." "Then good day to you, and a civiller tongue in your head," cried Martin, spurring Ninus forward to drive over the fellow. But he was too quick, and hopped for his doorway, dealing the poor innocent brute a cruel blow on the muzzle as he passed. "Good day, clod," he answered. "Chut! You cannot even plough straight. You'll need more wit to your skull than that in Paris." "I owe you one for that," cried Martin, as Ninus plunged, squealing. "Owe away! To owe and never pay is Paris fashion," he replied laughing, and barred the door behind him, shutting himself into darkness. To have hammered against that stout barrier, belted with iron as broad as our palms, would have skinned our knuckles for nothing, so we rode on, Martin swearing as he had not sworn since he cursed Jan Meert. Nor did a sight of the Star of Flanders, though it was the end of the first stage of our journey, bring sweetness to his temper, nor, indeed, to mine either. Instead of the cheeriness, the gaiety, the flash and sparkle of court life, there was a dingy arch in the flat of a dingy wall and six or eight dusty, small paned windows, so veiled by heavy gratings as to suggest groans of the prison-house rather than bubbling laughter. But it was too late to seek other quarters, so we rode on into the courtyard. Supper? Certainly. Beds? A bed, one, perhaps; were we princes of the blood in disguise that we wanted beds apiece? Supper and a bed, yes, but pay before you stir the horses in the morning; that's the rule of the house. The insolence was galling, but poverty must pocket affronts, nor, let there be ever so many, is the pouch so filled that there is no room for another. We might have blustered, but to trim ragged clothes with airs and graces as if they were so much gold lace is to crown misfortune with folly, so we bore the scorn of the groundling in silence.