."

Felix Matier's manner of pronouncing French was somewhat painful to
listen to. Voltaire would probably have failed to recognise his solitary
lyric if he had heard it read by Mr. Matier. But if the poet had
discovered that the verses were his own and had got over his shudder at
a mangling of French sounds worse than the worst he can have heard at
Potsdam from the courtiers of Frederick William, he would probably have
been well enough satisfied with the spirit of the rendering. Mr. Matier,
of the North Street, Belfast, was obviously a sincere worshipper of
the _deesse altiere_, and would have been delighted to see her hands
_teintes du sang_ of the men who had torn down his sign the night
before. Neal, though he could read French easily, did not understand
a single word he heard. He took the book from his host to see what the
poem was about. Mr. Matier did not seem the least vexed, although he
understood what Neal was doing.

"The French are a great people," he said. "Europe owes them all the
ideas that are worth having. I'd be the last man to breathe a word
against them, but I must say that it requires some sort of a twisted
jaw to pronounce their language properly. I understand it all right when
it's printed, but as for Speaking it or following it when a Frenchman
speaks it----"

He shrugged his shoulders.

"But it's time I stopped moidering you with poetry. I hope you're really
feeling better. I hope Peg took good care of you, and brought you your
breakfast."

"Indeed she did. She took rather too good care of me. I thought one time
she was going to kiss me.

"Did she make to do that? Well, now, just think of it! Isn't she the
brazen hussy? And I'm sure her breath reeked of onions or some such
like."

"Oh," said Neal, "we didn't get as far as that. Her breath may be roses
for all I know."

"You kept her at arm's length. Serve her well right. I never heard of
such impudence. But these red-haired ones are the devil. It's the same
with horses. I had a chestnut filly one time--a neat little tit in her
way--but she'd kick the weathercock off the top of the church steeple
whenever she was a bit fresh. Never trust anything red. A red dog will
bite you, a red horse will kick you, a red wench will kiss you, besides
being a damned unlucky thing to meet first thing in the morning, a red
soldier will hang you. There's only one good thing in the world that's
red, and that's a red cap--the red cap of Liberty, Neal, and