saw the drift of the fellow's intentions, and he was
not minded to submit to fresh delays; already more than half an hour was
sped since he had left the Sucking Calf. He put it plainly to them that
more than enough delay had there been already and he begged the newcomer
to stand aside and allow them to terminate the business on which they
were met. But Monsieur Francois--as Sanguinetti had called him--would
not hear of it. He proved, indeed, a very testy fellow, and he had,
moreover, the support of the others, including even Monsieur Gaubert.

"Let me implore you not to spoil sport, sir," the latter begged
Garnache. "I have a friend at the inn who would never forgive me if I
permitted him to miss such a morning's diversion as this gentleman is
willing to afford him. Suffer me to go for him."

"Look you, sir," answered Garnache sharply, "however you may view this
meeting, it is not with me an affair of jest or sport. I am in a quarrel
that has been forced upon me, and--"

"Surely not, sir," Courthon interrupted sweetly. "You forget that you
rolled Monsieur Sanguinetti in the mud. That is hardly to have a quarrel
forced upon you."

Garnache bit his lip to the blood in his vexation.

"However the quarrel may have originated," said Francois, with a great
laugh, "I swear that it goes not forward until I am accommodated, too."

"You had better accede, monsieur," murmured Gaubert. "I shall not be
gone five minutes, and it will save time in the end."

"Oh, very well," cried poor Garnache in his despair. "Anything to save
time; anything! In God's name fetch your friend, and I hope you and he
and every man here will get his fill of fighting for once."

Gaubert departed on his errand, and there were fresh murmurs in the mob
until the reason of his going was understood. Five minutes sped; ten
minutes, and yet he returned not. Grouped together were Sanguinetti
and his two friends, in easy, whispered talk. At a little distance from
them, Garnache paced up and down to keep himself warm. He had thrown his
cloak over his shoulders again, and with sword tucked under arm and head
thrust forward, he stamped backwards and forwards, the very picture
of ill-humour. Fifteen minutes passed; twelve o'clock boomed from the
Church of Saint Francois d'Assisi and still Monsieur Gaubert returned
not. Garnache stood still a moment, in angry thought. This must not go
on. There must be an end, and at once. The tastes and inclinations
of brawler