ases the ladies. To the depths with him--'
and therewith one imp pulled him backwards again, while others danced
a war-dance round him, pointing their forks at him; and the prime
tormentor, whom he perfectly recognized, not only leapt over him, but
spurned at his face with a cloven foot, giving a blow, not of gay French
malice, but of malignity. It was too much for the boy's forbearance.
He struggled free, dashing his adversaries aside fiercely, and as they
again gathered about him, with the leader shouting, 'Rage, too, rage! To
the prey, imps--' he clenched his fist, and dealt the foremost foe such
a blow in the chest as to level him at once with the ground.

'Monsieur forgets,' said a voice, friendly yet reproachful, 'that this
is but sport.

It was Henry of Navarre himself who spoke, and bent to give a hand to
the fallen imp. A flush of shame rushed over Berenger's face, already
red with passion. He felt that he had done wrong to use his strength at
such a moment, and that, though there had been spite in is assailant,
he had not been therefore justified. He was glad to see Narcisse rise
lightly to his feet, evidently unhurt, and, with the frankness with
which he had often made it up with Philip Thistlewood or his other
English comrades after a sharp tussle, he held out his hand, saying,
'Good demon, your pardon. You roused my spirit, and I forgot myself.'

'Demons forget not,' was the reply. 'At him, imps!' And a whole circle
of hobgoblins closed upon with their tridents, forks, and other horrible
implements, to drive him back within two tall barred gates, which,
illuminated by red flames, were to form the ghastly prison of the
vanquished. Perhaps fresh indignities would have been attempted, had
not the King of Navarre thrown himself on his side, shared with him the
brunt of all the grotesque weapons, and battled them off with infinite
spirit and address, shielding him as it were from their rude insults by
his own dexterity and inviolability, though retreating all the time till
the infernal gates were closed on both.

Then Henry of Navarre, who never forgot a face, held out his hand,
saying, 'Tartarus is no region of good omen for friendships, M. de
Ribaumont, but, for lack of yonder devil's claw, here is mine. I like to
meet a comrade who can strike a hearty blow, and ask a hearty pardon.'

'I was too hot, Sire,' confessed Berenger, with one of his ingenuous
blushes, 'but he enraged me.'

'He means mischief.'