--though, like the Scottish youth of the period, he had
been early taught to look upon arms and war--thought he had never seen
a more martial looking, or more completely equipped and accomplished
man at arms than now saluted him in the person of his mother's brother,
called Ludovic with the Scar, or Le Balafre; yet he could not but shrink
a little from the grim expression of his countenance, while, with its
rough moustaches, he brushed first the one and then the other cheek of
his kinsman, welcomed his nephew to France, and, in the same breath,
asked what news from Scotland.

"Little good tidings, dear uncle," replied young Durward; "but I am glad
that you know me so readily."

"I would have known thee, boy, in the landes of Bourdeaux, had I met
thee marching there like a crane on a pair of stilts [the crutches or
stilts which in Scotland are used to pass rivers. They are employed by
the peasantry of the country near Bordeaux to traverse those deserts of
loose sand called Landes. S]. But sit thee down--sit thee down--if there
is sorrow to hear of, we will have wine to make us bear it.--Ho! old
Pinch Measure, our good host, bring us of thy best, and that in an
instant."

The well known sound of the Scottish French was as familiar in
the taverns near Plessis as that of the Swiss French in the modern
guinguettes [common inns] of Paris; and promptly--ay, with the
promptitude of fear and precipitation, was it heard and obeyed. A flagon
of champagne stood before them, of which the elder took a draught, while
the nephew helped himself only to a moderate sip to acknowledge his
uncle's courtesy, saying, in excuse, that he had already drunk wine that
morning.

"That had been a rare good apology in the mouth of thy sister, fair
nephew," said Le Balafre; "you must fear the wine pot less, if you
would wear beard on your face, and write yourself soldier. But,
come--come--unbuckle your Scottish mail bag--give us the news of Glen
Houlakin--How doth my sister?"

"Dead, fair uncle," answered Quentin, sorrowfully.

"Dead!" echoed his uncle, with a tone rather marked by wonder than
sympathy,--"why, she was five years younger than I, and I was never
better in my life. Dead! the thing is impossible. I have never had so
much as a headache, unless after revelling out of my two or three days'
furlough with the brethren of the joyous science--and my poor sister is
dead--And your father, fair nephew, hath he married again?"

And, ere the