continue to eat it, though your displeasure causes me great sorrow.
Sit down, or go away; otherwise you will annoy me; and I warn you that
I am something terrible when I am annoyed." But the good nature on his
face belied this statement.

"Rascal, I will flog you with the flat of my sword!" roared Nicot; and
he was about to draw when a strong hand restrained him.

"Patience, comrade, patience; you go too fast." Du Puys loosened
Nicot's hand.

The young man leaned back in his chair and twirled the ends of his
blond mustache. "If I were not so tired I could enjoy this comedy.
Horns of Panurge! did you Huguenots eat so many horses that your gorge
rises at the smell of one?"

"Monsieur, are you indeed from the king?" asked Du Puys courteously.
The very coolness of the stranger marked him as a man of importance.

"I have that honor."

"May I be so forward as to ask your name?"

"Victor de Saumaise, cadet in her Majesty's Guards, De Guitaut's
company."

"And your business?"

"The king's, Monsieur; horns of Panurge, the king's! which is to say,
none of yours." This time he pushed back his chair, stood upon his
feet and swung his sword in place. "Is this once more a rebel city?
And are you, Monsieur, successor to Guibon, the mayor, or the governor
of the province, or some equally distinguished person, to question me
in this fashion? I never draw my sword in pothouses; I simply dine in
them; otherwise I should be tempted to find out why a gentleman can not
be left in peace."

"Your reply, Monsieur," returned Du Puys, coloring, "would be entirely
just were it not for the fact that a messenger from Paris directly
concerns me. I am Captain Zachary du Puys, of Fort Louis, Quebec."

"Indeed, Captain," said De Saumaise, smiling again, "that simplifies
everything. You are one of the gentlemen whom I am come to seek."

"Monsieur," said the choleric Nicot, "accept my apologies; but,
nevertheless, I still adhere to the statement, that you smell badly of
wet horses." He bowed.

"And I accept the apology and confess to the impeachment."

"And besides," said Nicot, naively, "you kicked my shin cruelly."

"What! I thought it was the table-leg! It is my turn to apologise.
You no longer crave my blood?"

"No, Monsieur," sadly. Every one laughed.

Maitre le Borgne, wiped his perspiring forehead and waited for the
orders which were likely to follow this amicable settlement of the
dispute; and bewailed not unwise