dy, he exercised
himself for a while, warding off imaginary cuts and thrusts, lunging at
the wall, and giving his muscles play; then he took his master-key and
went through the garden leisurely; without hurrying, mark you. "Cool and
calm--British courage, that is the true sort, gentlemen." At the garden
end he opened the heavy iron door, violently and abruptly so that it
should slam against the outer wall. If "they" had been skulking behind
it, you may wager they would have been jam. Unhappily, they were not
there.

The way being open, out Tartarin would sally, quickly glancing to the
right and left, ere banging the door to and fastening it smartly with
double-locking. Then, on the way.

Not so much as a cat upon the Avignon road--all the doors closed, and
no lights in the casements. All was black, except for the parish lamps,
well spaced apart, blinking in the river mist.

Calm and proud, Tartarin of Tarascon marched on in the night, ringing
his heels with regularity, and sending sparks out of the paving-stones
with the ferule of his stick. Whether in avenues, streets, or lanes,
he took care to keep in the middle of the road--an excellent method of
precaution, allowing one to see danger coming, and, above all, to avoid
any droppings from windows, as happens after dark in Tarascon and the
Old Town of Edinburgh. On seeing so much prudence in Tartarin, pray do
not conclude that Tartarin had any fear--dear, no! he only was on his
guard.

The best proof that Tartarin was not scared is, that instead of going to
the club by the shortest cut, he went over the town by the longest and
darkest way round, through a mass of vile, paltry alleys, at the mouth
of which the Rhone could be seen ominously gleaming. The poor knight
constantly hoped that, beyond the turn of one of these cut-throats'
haunts, "they" would leap from the shadow and fall on his back. I
warrant you, "they" would have been warmly received, though; but, alack!
by reason of some nasty meanness of destiny, never indeed did Tartarin
of Tarascon enjoy the luck to meet any ugly customers--not so much as a
dog or a drunken man--nothing at all!

Still, there were false alarms somewhiles. He would catch a sound of
steps and muffled voices.

"Ware hawks!" Tartarin would mutter, and stop short, as if taking root
on the spot, scrutinising the gloom, sniffing the wind, even glueing his
ear to the ground in the orthodox Red Indian mode. The steps would
draw nearer, and