ast the
stranger paused, handed the spoon to the landlord, drew out a fine white
handkerchief and dusted his fingers, standing silent for a moment and
smiling upon the crowd.

It was at this point that some young villager called, in profuse
compliment: "Three cheers for the Prince!" The stranger threw an accent
of pose into his manner, his eye lighted, his chin came up, he dropped
one hand negligently on his hip, and waved the other in acknowledgment.
Presently he beckoned, and from the hotel were brought out four great
pitchers of wine and a dozen tin cups, and, sending the garcon around
with one, the landlord with another, he motioned Parpon the dwarf to
bear a hand. Parpon shot out a quick, half-resentful look at him, but
meeting a warm, friendly eye, he took the pitcher and went round among
the elders, while the stranger himself courteously drank with the young
men of the village, who, like many wiser folk, thus yielded to the charm
of mystery. To every one he said a hearty thing, and sometimes touched
his greeting off with a bit of poetry or a rhetorical phrase. These
dramatic extravagances served him well, for he was among a race of
story-tellers and crude poets.

Parpon, uncouth and furtive, moved through the crowd, dispensing as much
irony as wine:

"Three bucks we come to a pretty inn,
'Hostess,' say we, 'have you red wine?'
Brave! Brave!
'Hostess,' say we, 'have you red wine?'
Bravement!
Our feet are sore and our crops are dry,
Bravement!"

This he hummed to the avocat in a tone all silver, for he had that one
gift of Heaven as recompense for his deformity, his long arms, big head,
and short stature, a voice which gave you a shiver of delight and
pain all at once. It had in it mystery and the incomprehensible. This
drinking-song, hummed just above his breath, touched some antique memory
in Monsieur Garen the avocat, and he nodded kindly at the dwarf, though
he refused the wine.

"Ah, M'sieu' le Cure," said Parpon, ducking his head to avoid the hand
that Medallion would have laid on it, "we're going to be somebody now in
Pontiac, bless the Lord! We're simple folk, but we're not neglected. He
wears a ribbon on his breast, M'sieu' le Cure!"

This was true. Fastened by a gold bar to the stranger's breast was the
ribbon of an order.

The Cure smiled at Parpon's words, and looked curiously and gravely at
the stranger. Tall Medallion th