nstrous rapier. The sight of this
whimsical stranger was too much for Chavernay's self-restraint, and he
burst into a hearty fit of laughter, which he made no effort to control.

"What a scarecrow!" he muttered, looking back at the individual in black.
"What a gorgon!" he continued, as his eyes travelled to the man in
motley. "Gog and Magog, by Heavens!" he commented, as he surveyed the
astonishing pair.

Then, still laughing, he ran across the bridge and left the two objects
of his mirth glaring after him in indignation. Indeed, so indignant were
they, and so steadily did they keep their angry eyes fixed upon the
retreating figure of the marquis, while each continued his original
course of progression, that the two men, heedless of each other, ran into
each other with an awkward thump that recalled to each of them the fact
that there were other persons in the world as well as an impertinent
gentleman with nimble heels. The man in black and the man in many colors
each clapped a hand to a sword-hilt, only to withdraw it instantly and
extend it in sign of amicable greeting.

"Passepoil!" cried the man in many colors.

"Cocardasse!" cried the man in black.

"To my arms, brother, to my arms!" cried Cocardasse, and in a moment the
amazing pair were clasped in each other's embrace.

"Is it really you?" said Cocardasse, when he thought the embrace had
lasted long enough, holding Passepoil firmly by the shoulders and gazing
fixedly into his pale, pathetic face.

Passepoil nodded. "Truly. What red star guides you to Paris?"

Cocardasse dropped his voice to a whisper. "I had a letter."

Passepoil whispered in reply: "So had I."

Cocardasse amplified: "My letter told me to be outside the Inn of the
Three Graces, near Neuilly, on a certain day--this day--to serve the
Prince of Gonzague."

Passepoil nodded again. "So did mine."

Cocardasse continued: "Mine enclosed a draft on the Bank of Marseilles to
pay expenses."

Passepoil noted a point of difference: "Mine was on the Bank of Calais."

"I suppose Gonzague wants all that are left of us," Cocardasse said,
thoughtfully.

Passepoil sighed significantly. "There aren't many."

Cocardasse looked as gloomy as was possible for one of his rubicund
countenance and jolly bearing. "Lagardere has kept his word."

"Staupitz was killed at Seville," Passepoil murmured, as one who begins a
catalogue of disasters.

Cocardasse continued: "Faenza was killed at Burgos."

Passe