"The commission you gave me about the Saxon lady down at the monastery." "The wench that all the pother's about?" "Yes, the same." "Ah, I remember. Have you got her, Pierre?" "Yes, as snug as anybody could wish. Not a whisper has got abroad." "Bravo, Pierre! You are a gentleman. Pierre, do you hear? You are a gentleman, or a thief, I don't care which," giving a drunken chuckle. "Drink, Pierre," said he, handing him a flagon of wine with a trembling hand. Pierre took the goblet and drained it to the last drop. Vigneau took it again, and looked into it for a moment with maudlin pensiveness, as though he could scarcely realise that it was really the bottom he gazed at. But the quarrelsome humour in him was never so rampant as when he was in his cups. "There's a pint of good Rhenish gone, Pierre. Gone, too, into a stomach that must be about rotted out with Saxon ale by this time." "Well, we'll bring them round with soothing draughts of Rhenish, master." "Eh, dog? Not with mine, Pierre. With swill if you like, Pierre! Swill will do for a hog like you, Pierre! Eh! Do you hear me? Swill will do for you!" said the Baron, becoming quarrelsome with drunken excitement. Fortunately, Pierre was sober, or matters would speedily have become serious. Checking the rising choler, he said,-- "What is to be done with this Saxon--Ethel, as she is called?" "What do you know about Ethel, eh? Have you got her, scurvy villain? I say, have you got her? Answer me that." "I told you we had, not a minute since." "Eh? Then speak civilly, varlet! Do you know who I am? D---- me, I allow thy tongue too much licence. I'll not have such impudence from a scurvy trooper as I've taken lately. I'll teach you I'm a gentleman. Now mark me, Pierre. Keep a civil distance. I'll not have it," and he began fumbling for the hilt of his sword. "Pshaw!" said Pierre, assuming both a look and a tone of disgust. "Eh, churl, what now?" roared Vigneau, in a towering rage, with great effort staggering to his feet, and after prolonged exertion getting out his sword, and lunging furiously at Pierre. But the act was too much for him. Lurching head foremost, the sword's point came ignominiously to the ground with his weight upon it, to prevent his falling flat. The result was, his great weight forced it a foot into the ground, from which his utmost efforts failed to extricate it, Pierre, meanwhile, vanishing from the tent with a horse-laugh. Vigneau dropped into his seat and stared vacantly at the point where Pierre had vanished, then at the sword standing upright in the ground. But his efforts to recall what it was all about were a total failure. Slowly his bleared eyes closed, and soon after he slid from his seat to the ground, to sleep off the effects of the night's debauch.