ing," says M. Picot. "I'll teach you, and you
can tell me of the fur trade."

You may be sure I went as often as ever I could. M. Picot took me
upstairs to a sort of hunting room. It had a great many ponderous oak
pieces carved after the Flemish pattern and a few little bandy-legged
chairs and gilded tables with courtly scenes painted on top, which he
said Mistress Hortense had brought back as of the latest French
fashion. The blackamoor drew close the iron shutters; for, though
those in the world must know the ways of the world, worldling practices
were a sad offence to New England. Shoving the furnishings aside, M.
Picot picked from the armory rack two slim foils resembling Spanish
rapiers and prepared to give me my lesson. Carte and tierce, low carte
and flanconnade, he taught me with many a ringing clash of steel till
beads were dripping from our brows like rain-drops.

"Bravo!" shouted M. Picot in a pause. "Are you son o' the Stanhope
that fought on the king's side?"

I said that I was.

"I knew the rascal that got the estate from the king," says M. Picot,
with a curious look from Hortense to me; and he told me of Blood, the
freebooter, who stole the king's crown but won royal favour by his
bravado and entered court service for the doing of deeds that bore not
the light of day.

Nightly I went to the French doctor's house, and I learned every wicked
trick of thrust and parry that M. Picot knew. Once when I bungled a
foul lunge, which M. Picot said was a habit of the infamous Blood, his
weapon touched my chest, and Mistress Hortense uttered a sharp cry.

"What--what--what!" exclaims M. Picot, whirling on her.

"'Twas so real," murmurs Hortense, biting her lip.

After that she sat still enough. Then the steel was exchanged for
cards; and when I lost too steadily M. Picot broke out: "Pish, boy,
your luck fails here! Hillary, child, go practise thy songs on the
spinet."

Or: "Hortense, go mull us a smack o' wine!"

Or: "Ha, ha, little witch! Up yet? Late hours make old ladies."

And Hortense must go off, so that I never saw her alone but once.
'Twas the night before I was to leave for the trade.

The blackamoor appeared to say that Deliverance Dobbins was "a-goin' in
fits" on the dispensary floor.

"Faith, doctor," said I, "she used to have dumps on our turnstile."

"Yes," laughed Hortense, "small wonder she had dumps on that turnstile!
Ramsay used to tilt her backward."

M. Picot hastene