"Why," said the Abbé John, smiling, "that you are named, curiously enough, Sileno--that your father's name was Lorent and your mother's Valvidia--that you are tenant of a well-provisioned inn called with equal curiosity the Golden Chevelure, and that you lodge (as you put it) both 'on horseback or on foot.' That is a good deal of printing to pay for at a penny a letter!" "As I foretold, your Excellency knows nothing of the matter--and indeed, how should you? For by your tongue I would wager that you are from the Navarrese provinces--therefore a speaker of two languages and a wanderer over the face of the earth--your sword your bedfellow, a sack of fodder for your beast your best couch, and the loot of the last town taken by assault the only provender for your purse----" "Let my purse alone," quoth the Abbé John, "you will find that there is enough therein to pay you, and--for a bottle of good wine on occasion for the pleasure of your company." This mixture of hauteur and familiarity appeared to enchant the landlord, and he laid down on the bed the dishes he was carrying. "I will explain," he said; "it is not every day that you can hear such a tale as mine for nothing." "Bring a bottle of your best!" said John, who was disposed to talk, hoping that by-and-by he might receive also the best of informations as to the ships in the harbour, their incomings and outgoings, their captains and merchandises, together with the ports to which they sailed. The wine was brought, and the host began his tale. "This hostelry of mine was my father's also, and his father's before him for many generations. They were of noble blood--of the Llorients of Collioure, though the rolling of vulgar tongues has shortened it a little in these days. And my mother's name was Valvidia, being of one of the best houses of Spain. I am therefore of good blood on either side--you hear, Señor the Soldier?" The Abbé John nodded. There was nothing remarkable in that. Every Spaniard counts himself so born, and it must be owned, so far at least as politeness is concerned, comports himself as such. But the Chevelure d'Or, its carefully-mixed wine, and the tale thereto attached proved so soporific, that when John d'Albret awoke, he found himself chained to a bench in a long, low, evil-smelling place. A huge oar-handle was before him, upon which he was swaying drunkenly to and fro. He had on his left two companions who were doing the work of the rowing, and, erected upon a bench behind, a huge man with a fierce countenance walked to and fro with a whip in his hand. "Where am I?" said John d'Albret feebly, his voice appearing to himself to come from an infinite distance, and sounding through the buzzing and racking of many windmills, like those of Jean-Marie the Miller-Alcalde when upon their beams and sails the mistral does its bitter worst.