Seating myself at the same table, while Andriot took his place a little farther down, I waited patiently for the arrival of my mess, giving from time to time a glance towards the previous occupant of the room, who was busily engaged in emptying the contents of his own bowl, and, apparently, taking very little notice of what was passing around him. As far as I could see, he was a good-looking man, somewhat below forty years of age, broad and powerfully made, with hair not red, but of a light glossy brown, curling round his brow with flowing and graceful waves. The mustache which he wore upon his upper lip was very thick and long, but lighter even in colour than his hair. The features were good, without being strikingly handsome; but when he opened his mouth, the expression of his whole face was injured by the want of three of his front teeth. There was a scar or two on other parts of his countenance, which bespoke the soldier; and one of his hands, which rested somewhat listlessly on the table while he ate his soup with the other, was disfigured by a large round scar on the back, and seemed to have been penetrated either by a spear or a ball. He ate his bread with his soup, but drank no wine till he had done; he then, however, nearly filled his cup, and, after having drank it, looked up, saying, with a slight foreign accent, "Good wine in these parts. Are you of this country, young gentleman?" "No," I replied (for I was born on the banks of the Loire); and, having satisfied myself by speaking the simple truth in one monosyllable, I took no farther notice till he said. "And yet yours is a Gascon accent, it seems to me." "And yours a Scotch one," I replied. "Well hit, my young falcon," replied the stranger, in a light tone; "you follow the game true." "As every one should do," I replied, not a little doubtful of the character of my worthy companion, and answering no more than was absolutely necessary. The stranger, however, was not so easily to be frustrated, and he returned to the charge about my Gascon accent. "Some birds," he said, "have a rare skill in deceiving their pursuers. I should not marvel still if Guienne had been your birthplace." "You could not wish me a better," I answered. "No, nor a shrewder wit, you think," he said: "however, I give you good-morning." And, taking up his hat, which lay beside him, he finished his small bottle of wine and moved towards the door. At that moment Jacques de Cannes was coming in with a bowl of soup for Andriot, and the stranger stopped him for a minute or two, saying something that we did not hear. The aubergiste replied in the same low voice, and the stranger, turning away, added aloud, "Not till I have seen him again, Maître Jacques."