“Tush!” said the old gentleman in the chair, who (it seems) had heard all, and now sat up brisk as ever. “I, for my part shall mix another glass, and leave it all to Jacques. Come, sit by me, sir, and you shall see some pretty play. Why, Jacques is the neatest rogue with a small sword in all France!” “Sir,” I put in, “they are a round dozen in all, and your life at present is not worth a penny’s purchase.” “That’s a lie! ’Tis worth this bowl before me, that, with or without you, I mean to empty. What a fool thing is youth! Sir, you must be a dying man like myself to taste life properly.” And, as I am a truthful man, he struck up quavering merrily— “Hey, nonni—nonni—no! Men are fools that wish to die! Is’t not fine to laugh and sing When the bells of death do ring? Is’t not fine to drown in wine, And turn upon the toe, And sing, hey—nonni—no? Hey, nonni—nonni—” “—Come and sit, sir, nor spoil sport. You are too raw, I’ll wager, to be of any help; and boggling I detest.” “Indeed, sir,” I broke in, now thoroughly anger’d, “I can use the small sword as well as another.” “Tush! Try him, Jacques.” Jacques, still wearing a stolid face, brought his weapon to the guard. Stung to the quick, I wheel’d round, and made a lunge or two, that he put aside as easily as though I were a babe. And then—I know not how it happened, but my sword slipp’d like ice out of my grasp, and went flying across the room. Jacques, sedately as on a matter of business, stepp’d to pick it up, while the old gentleman chuckled. I was hot and asham’d, and a score of bitter words sprang to my tongue-tip, when the Frenchman, as he rose from stooping, caught my eye, and beckon’d me across to him. He was white as death, and pointed to the hilt of my sword and the demi-bear engrav’d thereon. “He is dead,” I whisper’d: “hush!—turn your face aside—killed by those same dogs that are now below.” I heard a sob in the true fellow’s throat. But on the instant it was drown’d by the sound of a door opening and the tramp of feet on the stairs. CHAPTER VI. THE FLIGHT IN THE PINE WOOD. By the sound of their steps I guess’d one or two of these dozen rascals to be pretty far gone in drink, and afterward found this to be the case. I look’d round. Sir Deakin had pick’d up the lamp and was mixing his bowl of punch, humming to himself without the least concern—— “Vivre en tout cas C’est le grand soulas”— with a glance at his daughter’s face, that was white to the lips, but firmly set. “Hand me the nutmeg yonder,” he said, and then, “why, daughter, what’s this?—a trembling hand?” And all the while the footsteps were coming up. There was a loud knock on the door. “Come in!” call’d Sir Deakin.