m in kind, using the Languedocean speech
which runs like a kind of _Lingua Franca_ from Bayonne to Barcelona.

"I am for the Table Solvent. Bite on that, Master Sileno, and the next
time be not so suspicious of a soldier who has fought in many campaigns,
and hopes to fight in many another! Now, by my beard which is yet to be,
give me a razor and shaving-tackle, that I may make myself fit to call
upon the Governor--while do you, Master Sileno, be off and get a good
dinner ready!"

The landlord pocketed the coin as an asset towards the lengthy bill he
saw unrolling in his mind's eye.

"Our Lord Governor the Count of Livia is at present with the King in
Madrid," he said, "so I fear that you will be compelled to await his
return, that is, if your business be with him, or has reference to any
of the ships in the harbour, or is connected with supplies or stores
military."

Senor Don Sileno, of the Chevelure d'Or, felt that he had given his
guest quite sufficient latitude for entering into an explanation. But
the Abbe John only thrust the hilt of his sword hard down, till the
point cocked itself suggestively under the landlord's nose as he turned
his back upon him.

"My business is with the Governor," he said shortly, "and if your house
prove a good one and your table well supplied, I may indeed be content
to await his return!"

"This bantling mayoral," muttered the landlord, "keeps his mask up. Very
well--so much the better, so long as he pays. None gives himself airs in
the house of Don Sileno Lorent y Valvidia, hosteller of Rosas, without
paying for it! That is the barest justice. But, methinks this young
boaster of many campaigns and the long sword, might have a new suit of
clothes to go and see the Governor withal. Yet I am not sure--fighting
is a curious trade. A good cook is not always known by the cleanliness
of his apron."

At this moment the Abbe John roared down the stairs for the hot water.

"Coming, your Excellency!" answered the host, making a wry face; "all
that you desire shall be in your chamber as fast as my scullions' legs
can bring it."

Shaved, reorganised as to his inner man, daintied as to his outer, the
Abbe John looked out of the window of the Golden Chevelure upon the
sleeping sea. The Parador was a little house with a trellised
flower-garden running down to the beach, and sheltered from the heat of
the sun by vine-leaves and trembling acacias.

"That is a strange name you have given your