understands that there is no
very marked difference, and that although nations differ very much in
discipline, they are all equally brave--except that the French have
rather more courage than the rest.

Well, the cork was drawn and the glasses ready, when suddenly the
English officer raised his sword to me as if in a challenge, and
cantered his horse across the grassland. My word, there is no finer
sight upon earth than that of a gallant man upon a gallant steed! I
could have halted there just to watch him as he came with such careless
grace, his sabre down by his horse's shoulder, his head thrown back, his
white plume tossing--youth and strength and courage, with the violet
evening sky above and the oak trees behind. But it was not for me to
stand and stare. Etienne Gerard may have his faults, but, my faith, he
was never accused of being backward in taking his own part. The old
horse, Rataplan, knew me so well that he had started off before ever I
gave the first shake to the bridle.

There are two things in this world that I am very slow to forget: the
face of a pretty woman, and the legs of a fine horse. Well, as we drew
together, I kept on saying, 'Where have I seen those great roan
shoulders? Where have I seen that dainty fetlock?' Then suddenly I
remembered, and as I looked up at the reckless eyes and the challenging
smile, whom should I recognize but the man who had saved me from the
brigands and played me for my freedom--he whose correct title was Milor
the Hon. Sir Russell Bart!

'Bart!' I shouted.

He had his arm raised for a cut, and three parts of his body open to my
point, for he did not know very much about the use of the sword. As I
brought my hilt to the salute he dropped his hand and stared at me.

'Halloa!' said he. 'It's Gerard!' You would have thought by his manner
that I had met him by appointment. For my own part, I would have
embraced him had he but come an inch of the way to meet me.

'I thought we were in for some sport,' said he. 'I never dreamed that it
was you.'

I found this tone of disappointment somewhat irritating. Instead of
being glad at having met a friend, he was sorry at having missed an
enemy.

'I should have been happy to join in your sport, my dear Bart,' said I.
'But I really cannot turn my sword upon a man who saved my life.'

'Tut, never mind about that.'

'No, it is impossible. I should never forgive myself.'

'You make too much of a trifle.'

'My mother's one