"I have none. I thought that perhaps you had a friend."

"I! A friend?" I laughed bitterly. "Pshaw, Andrea! beggars have no
friends. But stay; find Stanislas de Gouville. There is no better blade
in Paris. If he will join us in this frolic, and you can hold off Canaples
until either St. Auban or Montmédy is disposed of, we may yet leave the
three of them on the field of battle. Courage, Andrea! Dum spiramus,
speramus."

My words seemed to cheer him, and when presently he left me to seek out the
redoubtable Gouville, the poor lad's face was brighter by far than when he
had entered my room.

Down in my heart, however, I was less hopeful than I had led him to
believe, and as I dressed after he had gone, 't was not without some
uneasiness that I turned the matter over in my mind. I had, during the
short period of our association, grown fond of Andrea de Mancini. Indeed
the wonted sweetness of the lad's temper, and the gentleness of his
disposition, were such as to breed affection in all who came in contact
with him. In a way, too, methought he had grown fond of me, and I had
known so few friends in life,--truth to tell I fear me that I had few of
the qualities that engender friendship,--that I was naturally prone to
appreciate a gift that from its rareness became doubly valuable.

Hence was it that I trembled for the boy. He had shown aptitude with the
foils, and derived great profit from my tuition, yet he was too raw by far
to be pitted against so cunning a swordsman as Canaples.

I had but finished dressing when a coach rumbled down the street and halted