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 the voices grow more distinct,
till no more doubt was possible. "They" were coming -- in fact,
here "they" were!