"By the bomb! I believe the old gentleman is getting quite into a passion," replied the other, coolly twirling his moustache. "_Marie, ma princesse_, surely you are not so? The women are all devilish fond of me. When I ride in uniform through the streets of Paris, the sweet _grisettes_ flock to the doors in hundreds. Marie, or Maria—" "Insolent!" exclaimed the curate. "By one word I could avenge her, and overwhelm you with confusion and dismay." "_Peste!_" cried the astonished cuirassier, into whose head the wine he had taken was rapidly mounting; "that would indeed be something new. Overwhelm me with confusion? me, Monsieur de Mesmai, by the Emperor’s grace and my own deserts captain of No. 4 troop of the 10th cuirassiers? _Diable!_ that would be something rare, and rarities are agreeable. Maria, _ma belle coquette_, come to me, and say that you are not angry. Meanwhile, _Monsieur le Curé_, I should be glad to hear that terrible word." He advanced again towards Maria Rosat; but Ronald, who was now seriously angry, interposed between him and the terrified girl. "Shame! shame on you, Captain de Mesmai!" said he. "This conduct shows me how outrageously you soldiers of Buonaparte must behave on all occasions towards the Spaniards, and that the excesses recorded of Massena’s troops were not exaggerated in the London newspapers." "Massena is a fine fellow, and a soldier every inch," answered the other tartly; "but let us not come to blows about a smatchet like this,—especially as you, monsieur, have the advantage of me. You are armed and free; I am weaponless and a prisoner on parole. But, Monsieur Stuart, I meant no harm. In a soldier-like way, I love to press my moustaches against a soft cheek. No harm was intended, and _ma belle Marie_ well knows that." "Ah, Monsieur Maurice—" began the curate. "Ha! Maurice?" interrupted the cuirassier sharply. "How came you, old gentleman, to know my name so well?" "Insolent and libertine soldier!" replied the curate sternly, "I know not if I should tell you. I would,—I say again I can confound and dismay you as you deserve to be." "A rare blockhead this! rare, as one would meet in a march of ten leagues. Do so, in the devil’s name, Sir Curate; but as for Maria—" "Name her not, _base roué_! She is—she is—" "_Tête-dieu!_ who is she, most polite monsieur? A princess in disguise?" "Your daughter,—your own child! Maurice de Mesmai of Quinsay," replied the old priest with solemn energy; while the dark features of the cuirassier became purple and then deadly pale, and his eyes wandered from the faces of Ronald and Maria to the calm features of the curate, whose arm he grasped, as, with emphatic sternness and in a tone something very like consternation, he answered,— "My daughter? Impossible! What have you dared to tell me, old man?’