and looking down
superciliously at these two SACRRRES ANGLAIS.

"In Heaven's name, man," admonished Marguerite, hurriedly, seeing that
Sir Andrew, with British-born instinct, was ominously clenching his
fist, "remember that you are in France, and that in this year of grace
this is the temper of the people."

"I'd like to scrag the brute!" muttered Sir Andrew, savagely.

He had taken Marguerite's advice and sat next to her at table, and they
were both making noble efforts to deceive one another, by pretending to
eat and drink.

"I pray you," said Marguerite, "keep the creature in a good temper, so
that he may answer the questions we must put to him."

"I'll do my best, but, begad! I'd sooner scrag him than question him.
Hey! my friend," he said pleasantly in French, and tapping Brogard
lightly on the shoulder, "do you see many of our quality along these
parts? Many English travellers, I mean?"

Brogard looked round at him, over his near shoulder, puffed away at his
pipe for a moment or two as he was in no hurry, then muttered,--

"Heu!--sometimes!"

"Ah!" said Sir Andrew, carelessly, "English travellers always know
where they can get good wine, eh! my friend?--Now, tell me, my lady was
desiring to know if by any chance you happen to have seen a great friend
of hers, an English gentleman, who often comes to Calais on business; he
is tall, and recently was on his way to Paris--my lady hoped to have met
him in Calais."

Marguerite tried not to look at Brogard, lest she should betray before
him the burning anxiety with which she waited for his reply. But a
free-born French citizen is never in any hurry to answer questions:
Brogard took his time, then he said very slowly,--

"Tall Englishman?--To-day!--Yes."

"Yes, to-day," muttered Brogard, sullenly. Then he quietly took Sir
Andrew's hat from a chair close by, put it on his own head, tugged at
his dirty blouse, and generally tried to express in pantomime that
the individual in question wore very fine clothes. "SACRRE ARISTO!" he
muttered, "that tall Englishman!"

Marguerite could scarce repress a scream.

"It's Sir Percy right enough," she murmured, "and not even in disguise!"

She smiled, in the midst of all her anxiety and through her gathering
tears, at the thought of "the ruling passion strong in death"; of Percy
running into the wildest, maddest dangers, with the latest-cut coat upon
his back, and the laces of his jabot unruffled.

"Oh! the foolhardin