him. If anyone wants to take up his quarrel, Blaise Bure is his
man. If not, let us have an end of it. Let someone find stalls
for the gentlemen's horses before they catch a chill; and have
done with it. As for me," he added, and then he turned to us and
removed his hat with an exaggerated flourish, "I am your
lordship's servant to command."

I thanked him with a heartiness, half-earnest, half-assumed. His
cloak was ragged, his trunk hose, which had once been fine
enough, were stained, and almost pointless, He swaggered
inimitably, and had led-captain written large upon him. But he
had done us a service, for Jean had no further trouble about the
horses. And besides one has a natural liking for a brave man,
and this man was brave beyond question.

"You are from Orleans," he said respectfully enough, but as one
asserting a fact, not asking a question.

"Yes," I answered, somewhat astonished, "Did you see us come in?"

"No, but I looked at your boots, gentlemen," he replied. "White
dust, north; red dust, south. Do you see?"

"Yes, I see," I said, with admiration. "You must have been
brought up in a sharp school, M. Bure."

"Sharp masters make sharp scholars," he replied, grinning. And
that answer I had occasion to remember afterwards.

"You are from Orleans, also?" I asked, as we prepared to go in.