Some had their
"trams" pitifully uplifted to heaven in wooden protestation against such
ill-treatment; some wept tears of cracked pitch because the sun had been
too much with them. Leathern aprons of ancient diligences split and
seamed with alternate rain and drought. Everywhere there was a musty
smell of old cushion-stuffing. A keen whiff of stables wandered past.
Not far off one heard the restless nosing of horses in their mangers,
and from yet another side came the warm breath of kine.

For Master Anthony Arpajon was a _bien_ man, a man of property, and so
far the Leaguers of Blois had not been able to prevail against him. In
the courtyard, stretched at length on sacks of chaff, their heads on
their corn-bags, with which, doubtless, on the morrow they would
entertain their beasts by the way, many carters and drivers of
high-piled wine-chariots were asleep.

The lower part of Master Anthony's house was a sort of free hostel,
like the caravanserai of the East. The upper, into which no stranger was
permitted to enter on any pretext, was like a fortified town.

To the left of the entrance, a narrow oblong break in the wall made a
sort of rude buffet. Sections of white-aproned, square-capped cooks
could be seen moving about within. Through the gap they served the
simpler hot meats, bottles of wine, bread, omelettes, and salads to the
arriving guests. It was curious that each, on going first to the
barrier, threw the end of his blue Pyrenean waist-band over his
shoulder. A little silver cow-bell, tied like a tassel to the silk,
tinkled as he did so.

For this was the chosen sign of the men of Bearn. All the warring
Protestants, and especially the Calvinists of the south, had adopted it,
because it was the symbol of the arms of Bearn. And wherever it was
unsafe to wear the White Plume of the hero on the cap, as in the town of
Blois, it was easy to tuck the silver cow-bell of King Henry under the
silken sash, where its tinkling told no tales.

But among these wine-carriers and free folk of the roads there was
scarcely one who did not know Jean-aux-Choux. Yet they did not laugh as
he entered, but rather greeted him respectfully, as one who plays well
his part, though he came in shouting at the top of his voice, "Way for
the fool of fools--the fool of three kings--and not so great a fool as
any one of them!"

One man came forward, speaking the drawling speech of Burgundy, all
liquid "l's" and slurred "r's," and with a c