he ground.

Then he went very slowly up to a dresser which stood in a corner of
the room; from this he took an old pewter soup-tureen and slowly,
and without a word, he handed it to his better-half, who, in the same
silence, began filling the tureen with the soup out of her stock-pot.

Marguerite had watched all these preparations with absolute horror; were
it not for the earnestness of her purpose, she would incontinently have
fled from this abode of dirt and evil smells.

"Faith! our host and hostess are not cheerful people," said Sir Andrew,
seeing the look of horror on Marguerite's face. "I would I could offer
you a more hearty and more appetising meal . . . but I think you will
find the soup eatable and the wine good; these people wallow in dirt,
but live well as a rule."

"Nay! I pray you, Sir Andrew," she said gently, "be not anxious about
me. My mind is scarce inclined to dwell on thoughts of supper."

Brogard was slowly pursuing his gruesome preparations; he had placed
a couple of spoons, also two glasses on the table, both of which Sir
Andrew took the precaution of wiping carefully.

Brogard had also produced a bottle of wine and some bread, and
Marguerite made an effort to draw her chair to the table and to make
some pretence at eating. Sir Andrew, as befitting his ROLE of lacquey,
stood behind her chair.

"Nay, Madame, I pray you," he said, seeing that Marguerite seemed quite
unable to eat, "I beg of you to try and swallow some food--remember you
have need of all your strength."

The soup certainly was not bad; it smelt and tasted good. Marguerite
might have enjoyed it, but for the horrible surroundings. She broke the
bread, however, and drank some of the wine.

"Nay, Sir Andrew," she said, "I do not like to see you standing. You
have need of food just as much as I have. This creature will only think
that I am an eccentric Englishwoman eloping with her lacquey, if you'll
sit down and partake of this semblance of supper beside me."

Indeed, Brogard having placed what was strictly necessary upon the
table, seemed not to trouble himself any further about his guests. The
Mere Brogard had quietly shuffled out of the room, and the man stood
and lounged about, smoking his evil-smelling pipe, sometimes under
Marguerite's very nose, as any free-born citizen who was anybody's equal
should do.

"Confound the brute!" said Sir Andrew, with native British wrath,
as Brogard leant up against the table, smoking