"_Diable!_ my head is ringing like a kettledrum with the violence of that unlucky stroke. Monsieur, the basket-hilts of your Scottish regiments are confoundedly heavy, and their fluted blades give most uncomfortable thrusts," said De Mesmai, passing his hand over his round bullet head and thick and black curly hair, which clustered around a bold high forehead. His features were very handsome, strongly marked, and classically regular. Campaigns in Italy had bronzed and scarred them in no ordinary degree, and there was a bold recklessness in his eye and a fierceness in the curl of his moustaches, which seemed quite to appal the poor old curate, notwithstanding the presence of Ronald Stuart. "_Vive la joie!_ let us drink and be merry. I am a prisoner of war,—_sacre!_ a prisoner! ’Tis something new; but thanks to D’Erlon, and Madame his dear little countess, who will never be able to mount horse without me, I will not be long so. _Vive la joie, Monsieur le Curé—Senor Cura_—or what do you style yourself among the rebels of Joseph Buonaparte,—what are we to have for supper?" "_Gaspacho_—only a dish of _gaspacho_; ’tis all I have to offer you, _gracios senores_." "_Soupe maigre_, by the Lord! Bah! _senor Espagnol_; ’tis food only for hogs or yourselves, not for a cuirassier of France." "’Tis all that France and misfortune enable me to offer. They have brought me low enough," replied the curate meekly, while he appeared astounded by the boisterous behaviour of the dragoon, for whom Ronald (though secretly angry at his conduct) endeavoured to apologize, and to re-assure their kind host. "But something else may be added to the _gaspacho_, senores, and you will find the latter very good; my grand-daughter is the best preparer of it in the village." "_Diable!_ your grand-daughter? what a merry monk you have been in your young days. But how came you, _senor curé_, to have a family?" "I was married before I took upon me the scapulary and girdle,—the badges of my holy order," replied the other, while the colour came and went in his faded cheek, and he regarded the Frenchman with a fixed look of indignation, which was replied to by a contemptuous laugh. "A jolly monk! _Vive la joie_! And is your grand-daughter young and pretty? I hope so, as I feel ennui creeping over me in this dull dungeon. But be not angry, reverend _curé_. Let us have but a measure of decent wine to wash down this same _gaspacho_, and we shall manage pretty well." "If monsieur knew that I was his countryman," said the curate gently, "he might perhaps treat my grey hairs less insultingly." "Not a whit, monsieur renegade!" cried the cuirassier fiercely. "What! you are some base emigrant, I suppose. They are ever the bitterest enemies to the great Napoleon, to his faithful soldiers, and to _la belle France_." "’Tis false, rude soldier!" said the old man, his faded eye kindling up. "We are the only true friends to beautiful France, and the outraged house of Bourbon."