r, slowly, loudly. I strove to look as blank as the wall, and
shook my head gently and helplessly, and turned an inquiring gaze to the
others, as if beseeching them to interpret. One of the fellows clapped
Jean on the shoulder with a roar of laughter.

"A fall, a fall!" he shouted. "Here's the all-conquering Jean Marchand
tripped up for once. He thinks nothing that wears petticoats can
withstand him, but here's a maid that hasn't a word to throw at him."

"Pshaw! she doesn't understand me," Jean returned, undaunted, and
promptly pointed a finger at my mouth and then raised his fist to his
own, with sucks and gulps. I allowed myself to comprehend then. I smiled
in as coquettish a fashion as I could contrive, and glanced on the
ground, and slowly looked up again and nodded.

The men burst into loud applause.

"Good old Jean! Jean wins. Well played, Jean! Vive Jean!"

Jean, flushed with triumph, ran off on his errand, while I thought of
Margot, the steward's daughter, at home, and tried to recollect every
air and grace I had ever seen her flaunt before us lads. It was not bad
fun, this. I hid my hands under my apron and spoke not at all, but
sighed and smiled and blushed under their stares like any fine lady.
Once in one's life, for one hour, it is rather amusing to be a girl. But
that is quite long enough, say I.

Jean came again directly with a great silver tankard.

"Burgundy, pardieu!" cried one of his mates, sticking his nose into the
pot as it passed him, "and full! Ciel, you must think your lass has a
head."

"Oh, I shall drink with her," Jean answered.

I put out my hand for the tankard, running the risk of my big paw's
betraying me, resolved that he should not drink with me of that draught,
when of a sudden he leaned over to snatch a kiss. I dodged him, more
frightened than the shyest maid. Though in this half-light I might
perfectly look a girl, I could not believe I should kiss like one. In a
panic, I fled from Jean to my master's side.

M. Etienne, wheeling about, came near to laughing out in my face, when
he remembered his part and played it with a zeal that was like to undo
us. He sprang to his feet, drawing his dagger.

"Who insults my sister?" he shouted. "Who is the dog does this!"

They were on him, wrenching the knife from his hand, wrenching his lame
arm at the same time so painfully that he gasped. I was scared chill; I
knew if they mishandled him they would brush the wig off.

"Mind you