Georges, regarding the
morose-looking man in front of him, said: "My friend, neither your
courtesy nor your hospitality is of the best. Does your master bid you
treat all who come to visit him in this manner?"

"I am obeying my master," the other replied; "the only one I
acknowledge--when I parley with you. Show me your warrant, however,
for coming to this house."

"There it is," replied St. Georges; "take it to your master, bid him
read it, and then bring me whatever message he may send me.
Perhaps"--regarding the servitor through the wicket, as he gave him
the paper--"if the master is like the man I had best wait until he has
read the king's letter ere I seek shelter for my horse. It may be that
I shall have to demand it for myself also at the inn."

Then, to his amazement, he saw that the other had opened the leaves of
the king's letter and was calmly reading them. "Fellow!" he exclaimed,
"how dare you make so bold? You read a letter from the king to me--to
be shown to your master----"

"Pish!" replied the other. "Be silent. I am Phelypeaux."

"You!" exclaimed the soldier, stepping back--"you!" and his eye fell
on the rusty-brown clothing of the man half in, half out, the wicket.
"You!"

"Yes, I. Now go and put your horse up at the inn. Then come back. But
stay--what have you beneath your arm?"

"A child."

"A child! Does Louis think I keep a nursery? What are we to do with
the child while you stay here?"

"I will attend to that. If you give me a bed the child will share it,
and if you have some white bread and milk it is enough for its food."

"Best get that at the 'Ours,'" replied he who said he was Phelypeaux.
"Bread I have, but no milk. _Ma foi!_ there is no babes' food here.
Now, I counsel you, go seek the inn. Your horse may take a chill. Then
come back. And"--as the soldier turned to lead his animal across the
snow-covered, deserted _place_--"leave the child there. The _patronne_
is a motherly creature with half a dozen of her own brood. 'Twill be
better there than here. Ring loudly when you return--I am somewhat
deaf," and he banged the wicket in St. Georges's face.

"Humph!" muttered the latter, as he crossed to the inn; "the counsel
is good. That seems no place for a child. Yet, how to leave it? Still,
it is best. It has slept often with its nurse; maybe will sleep well
at the inn. Well, let me see what the _patronne_ is like."

He entered the yard of the "Ours" as he meditated thus, engaged