rode right
across the _potager_ with a disregard of the proprietor's interests and
feelings refreshing to see.

"It seems to me that the ancient positions have been reversed. You have
been spoiled by the Egyptians, Miss Tresilyan. Shall we try the secular
arm? You have scarcely been safe under the protection of the
church--_militant_."

There was a pause before the last word, and it was unpleasantly
emphasized. Then he advanced a step or two toward the Frenchman, without
waiting for a reply, and spoke in a totally different tone--brief and
imperative--"_Tu vas me rendre ca?_"

Duchesne had been rather startled by the apparition of the new-comer,
and, if he had been cool enough to reflect, would not have fancied him
as an antagonist; but his passion blinded him, and strong drink had
heated his brutal blood above boiling point; he ground his teeth, as he
answered, till the foam ran down--

"Le rendre--a toi--chien d'Anglais? je m'en garderai bien. Si la belle
demoiselle veut le ravoir, elle viendra demain, me prier bien gentiment;
et elle viendra--seule."

Now Royston Keene was thoroughly impregnated with the bitterest of
aristocratic prejudices: no man alive more utterly ignored the doctrines
of liberty, equality, and fraternity; besides this, he had acquired, to
an unusual extent, the overbearing tone and demeanor which the habit of
having soldiers under them is supposed to bring, too commonly, to modern
centurions. He actually experienced a "fresh sensation" as he heard the
insult leveled by those coarse plebeian lips at the woman "he delighted
to honor." His swarthy face grew white down to the lips, whose quivering
the heavy mustache could not quite conceal, and he shivered from head to
foot where he stood. Jean Duchesne thought he detected the familiar
signs of a terror he had often inspired. "Tu as peur donc? Tu
tressailles deja, blanc-bec! Tonnerre de Di! tu as raison." Not a trace
of passion lingered in the major's clear, cold voice, that fell upon the
ear with the ring of steel. "On ne tressaille pas, quand on est sur de
gagner. Regarde donc en arriere."

Involuntarily the Frenchman looked behind him, expecting a fresh
adversary from that quarter. As he turned his head Keene sprang forward,
and plucked the parasol from his grasp: in one second he had laid it
lightly in its owner's hand; in the next he had returned to his
position, and stood, ready for the onset, motionless as the marble
Creugas.

He had