If they want the others, they don't want
me."

His remarks were interrupted by a slight scuffle between Passepoil and
Martine. Passepoil had so far conquered his natural timidity as to go to
the length of soliciting a kiss from the Inn maid. She had successfully
repulsed him with a slap on each of his cheeks, and had slipped from the
room. While Passepoil was rubbing his face ruefully, AEsop went on,
sardonically:

"What do you think of it, friend Cocardasse? Here we are, nine of us,
nine picked swordsmen, and we are going to fight one man."

Cocardasse had returned to the table and filled himself a monstrous
measure of wine. He was thirsty, an habitual state with him, and he eyed
the rough wine lovingly.

"Who is the giant who is going to fight nine of us?" he asked as he
lifted his cup from the board.

Passepoil, who, enjoying like his comrade an abiding drought, had
followed his example, hoping to find consolation in wine for the
disappointments of love, also expressed his surprise.

"Every man of us can fight three men at a time," he whispered, timidly,
and he, too, lifted his glass.

"Who is the man, anyhow?" said Cocardasse, cheerfully, making the wine
swing in the vessel; and Staupitz answered him, slowly:

"Louis, Duke of Nevers."

The effect of this simple speech upon the new-comers was exceedingly
remarkable. Cocardasse seemed suddenly to forget his thirst, for he set
down his untasted mug upon the table. Passepoil did the like. "Oh!" said
Cocardasse, solemnly. "Ah!" said Passepoil, gloomily.

For a few appreciable seconds of strained excitement to those that
watched them the pair remained rigid, staring at their rejected
wine-cups, as if the liquor they contained had some monstrous Medusa-like
property of stiffening into stone all those that presumed to drink of it.
Then the Gascon, slowly turning his head, gazed steadfastly at the
Norman; and the Norman, slowly turning his head, gazed steadfastly at the
Gascon, and then the pair, so gazing, both wagged their polls very
solemnly indeed, and puckered their eyebrows and betrayed many other very
visible signs of dissatisfaction, not to say of discomfort. Then
Cocardasse muttered to his comrade the words "Louis de Nevers," as if
they were not at all to his liking, and Passepoil, in his turn, repeated
the words, as if they were not at all to his liking, and then they both
sighed and grunted and were silent.

The look of stupefaction, not to say const