his sword, the slender one forgetting the condition of his arm.

"Oh, it is you," said the robust man, in a virile voice, of which the
tone was now purposely offensive. "The wind blows fragile articles into
one's face to-night."

"It blows gentlemen into muck-heaps," responded the other, quickly.

The hearty gentleman gave a loud laugh, meant to aggravate the other's
anger, and then said:

"We do not need seconds, M. de Quelus," putting into his utterance of the
other's name a world of insult.

"Come on, then, M. Bussy d'Amboise," replied the other, pronouncing the
name only that he might, in return, hiss out the final syllable as if it
were the word for something filthy.

Both whipped out their swords, M. de Quelus now seemingly unconscious of
the pain in his arm.

I looked on from the shadow in which I had stopped, not having followed
De Quelus into the little open space. My interest in the encounter was
naturally the greater for having learned the names of the antagonists. At
La Tournoire I had heard enough of the court to know that the Marquis de
Quelus was the chief of the King's effeminate chamberlains, whom he
called his minions, and that Bussy d'Amboise was the most redoubtable of
the rufflers attached to the King's discontented brother, the Duke of
Anjou; and that between the dainty gentlemen of the King and the bullying
swordsmen of the Duke, there was continual feud.