This repeated assertion of cowardice on the part of the living Damascus blade that stood bolt-upright before her, struck Josephine as so funny that she laughed merrily, and bade him fancy it was only a fort he was attacking instead of the terrible Josephine; whom none but heroes feared, she assured him. This encouragement, uttered in jest, was taken in earnest. The soldier thanked her, and rallied visibly at the comparison. “All right,” said he, “as you say, it is only a fort--so--mademoiselle!” “Monsieur!” “Hum! will you lend me your hand for a moment?” “My hand! what for? there,” and she put it out an inch a minute. He took it, and inspected it closely. “A charming hand; the hand of a virtuous woman?” “Yes,” said Josephine as cool as a cucumber, too sublimely and absurdly innocent even to blush. “Is it your own?” “Sir!” She blushed at that, I can tell you. “Because if it was, I would ask you to give it me. (I’ve fired the first shot anyway.)” Josephine whipped her hand off his palm, where it lay like cream spilt on a trencher. “Ah! I see; you are not free: you have a lover.” “No, no!” cried Josephine in distress; “I love nobody but my mother and sister: I never shall.” “Your mother,” cried Raynal; “that reminds me; he told me to ask her; by Jove, I think he told me to ask her first;” and Raynal up with his scabbard and was making off. Josephine begged him to do nothing of the kind. “I can save you the trouble,” said she. “Ah, but my instructions! my instructions!” cried the military pedant, and ran off into the house, and left Josephine “planted there,” as they say in France. Raynal demanded a private interview of the baroness so significantly and unceremoniously that Rose had no alternative but to retire, but not without a glance of defiance at the bear. She ran straight, without her bonnet, into the Pleasaunce to slake her curiosity at Josephine. That young lady was walking pensively, but turned at sight of Rose, and the sisters came together with a clash of tongues. “O Rose! he has”-- “Oh!” So nimbly does the female mind run on its little beaten tracks, that it took no more than those syllables for even these innocent young women to communicate that Raynal had popped. Josephine apologized for this weakness in a hero. “It wasn’t his fault,” said she. “It is your Edouard who set him to do it.” “My Edouard? Don’t talk in that horrid way: I have no Edouard. You said ‘no’ of course.” “Something of the kind.” “What, did you not say ‘no’ plump?” “I did not say it brutally, dear.” “Josephine, you frighten me. I know you can’t say ‘no’ to any one; and if you don’t say ‘no’ plump to such a man as this, you might as well say ‘yes.’” “Well, love,” said Josephine, “you know our mother will relieve me of this; what a comfort to have a mother!”