derstand it well."

"And Borromee an apt pupil."

"Oh, yes! he is very intelligent."

While the monks went through their exercises, Gorenflot said, "You shall
see my little Jacques."

"Who is Jacques?"

"A nice lad, calm-looking, but strong, and quick as lightning. Look,
there he is with a musket in his hand, about to fire."

"And he fires well."

"That he does."

"But stay--"

"Do you know him?"

"No; I thought I did, but I was wrong."

While they spoke, Jacques loaded a heavy musket, and placing himself at
one hundred yards from the mark, fired, and the ball lodged in the
center, amid the applause of the monks.

"That was well done!" cried Chicot.

"Thank you, monsieur," said Jacques, whose cheeks colored with pleasure.

"You manage your arms well," added Chicot.

"I study, monsieur."

"But he is best at the sword," said Gorenflot; "those who understand it,
say so, and he is practicing from morning till night."

"Ah! let us see," said Chicot.

"No one here, except perhaps myself, is capable of fencing with him; but
will you try him yourself, monsieur?" said Borromee.

"I am but a poor bourgeois," said Chicot; "formerly I have used my sword
like others, but now my legs tremble and my arm is weak."

"But you practice still?"

"A little," replied Chicot, with a smile. "However, you, Brother
Borromee, who are all muscle and tendon, give a lesson to Brother
Jacques, I beg, if the prior will permit it."

"I shall be delighted," cried Gorenflot.

The two combatants prepared for the trial. Borromee had the advantage in
height and experience. The blood mounted to the cheeks of Jacques and
animated them with a feverish color. Borromee gradually dropped all
appearance of a monk, and was completely the maitre d'armes: he
accompanied each thrust with a counsel or a reproach, but often the
vigor and quickness of Jacques triumphed over the skill of his teacher,
who was several times touched.

When they paused, Chicot said, "Jacques touched six times and Borromee
nine; that is well for the scholar, but not so well for the master."

The flash of Borromee's eyes showed Chicot that he was proud.

"Monsieur," replied he, in a tone which he endeavored to render calm,
"the exercise of arms is a difficult one, especially for poor monks."

"Nevertheless," said Chicot, "the master ought to be at least half as
good again as his pupil, and if Jacques were calmer, I am certain he
would fence as well as you."