rge metal clasp, he wore a pearl-handled pistol with
long barrel; and a rapier, with richly jewelled hilt, dangled at his
side. Altogether he made a fine figure of a man, and one of a sort I
had never met before.

If he interested me, doubtless I was no less a study to him. I could
see the astonishment in his eyes, after my first entrance, change to
amusement as he gazed. Then he brought a white hand down, with a smart
slap, upon the board beside him.

"By all the saints!" he exclaimed, "but I believe the black was right.
'Tis the face of a gentle, or I know naught of the breed, though the
attire might fool the very elect. Yet, _parbleu_! if memory serves, 't
is scarcely worse than what I wore in Spain."

He swung down upon his feet and faced me, extending one hand with all
cordiality, while lips and eyes smiled pleasantly.

"Monsieur," he said, bowing low, and with a grace of movement quite new
to me, "I bid you hearty welcome to whatsoever of good cheer this
desert may have to offer, and present to you the companionship of
Villiers de Croix. It may not seem much, yet I pledge you that kings
have valued it ere now."

It was a form of introduction most unfamiliar to me, and seemed
bristling with audacity and conceit; but I recognized the heartiness of
his purpose, and hastened to make fit response.

"I meet you with much pleasure," I answered, accepting the proffered
hand. "I am John Wayland."

The graceful recklessness of the fellow, so conspicuous in each word
and action, strongly attracted me. I confess I liked him from his
first utterance, although mentally, and perhaps morally as well, no two
men of our age could possibly be more unlike.

"Wayland?" he mused, with a shrug, as if the sound of the word was
unpleasant. "Wayland?--'t is a harsh name to my ears, yet I have heard
it mentioned before in England as that of a great family. You are
English, then?"

I shook my head emphatically; for the old wounds of controversy and
battle were then being opened afresh, and the feeling of antagonism ran
especially high along the border.

"I am of this country," I protested with earnestness, "and we call
ourselves Americans."

He laughed easily, evidently no little amused at my retort, twisting
his small mustache through his slender fingers as he eyed me.

"Ah! but that is all one to me; it is ever the blood and not the name
that counts, my friend. Now I am French by many a generation, Gascon
by birth