whatever was the motive, the neglect was very unsatisfactory to young
Durward, and he wished more than once he had taken service with the Duke
of Burgundy before he quarrelled with his forester. "Whatever had then
become of me," he thought to himself, "I should always have been able to
keep up my spirits with the reflection that I had, in case of the worst,
a stout back friend in this uncle of mine. But now I have seen him, and,
woe worth him, there has been more help in a mere mechanical stranger,
than I have found in my own mother's brother, my countryman and a
cavalier! One would think the slash, that has carved all comeliness out
of his face, had let at the same time every drop of gentle blood out of
his body."

Durward now regretted he had not had an opportunity to mention Maitre
Pierre to Le Balafre, in the hope of obtaining some farther account
of that personage; but his uncle's questions had followed fast on each
other, and the summons of the great bell of Saint Martin of Tours had
broken off their conference rather suddenly. That old man, he thought
to himself, was crabbed and dogged in appearance, sharp and scornful in
language, but generous and liberal in his actions; and such a stranger
is worth a cold kinsman.

"What says our old Scottish proverb?--'Better kind fremit, than fremit
kindred.' ['Better kind strangers than estranged kindred.' The motto is
engraved on a dirk, belonging to a person who had but too much reason to
choose such a device. It was left by him to my father. The weapon is now
in my possession. S.] I will find out that man, which, methinks, should
be no difficult task, since he is so wealthy as mine host bespeaks him.
He will give me good advice for my governance, at least; and if he goes
to strange countries, as many such do, I know not but his may be as
adventurous a service as that of those Guards of Louis."

As Quentin framed this thought, a whisper from those recesses of the
heart in which lies much that the owner does not know of, or will
not acknowledge willingly, suggested that, perchance, the lady of the
turret, she of the veil and lute, might share that adventurous journey.
As the Scottish youth made these reflections, he met two grave looking
men, apparently citizens of Tours, whom, doffing his cap with the
reverence due from youth to age, he respectfully asked to direct him to
the house of Maitre Pierre.

"The house of whom, my fair son?" said one of the passengers.

"Of M