ring rays, faintly illuminating the murkiness around, was at least
strong enough to allow any philosopher among the bravos--and AEsop was in
his way a philosopher--to observe and moralize upon the contrast between
the appearance of this Monsieur Peyrolles who employed bravos and the
bravos that this Monsieur Peyrolles employed.

Monsieur Peyrolles was a tall, thin, middle-aged man of pale complexion.
Like AEsop and like Passepoil, he was dressed in black, as became the
confidential servant of a master with many confidences; but, unlike the
amorous AEsop and unlike the amorous Passepoil--though the two men were
amorous after a very different fashion--his garments were of fine quality
and fine cut, with much costly lace at his yellow neck, and much costly
lace about the wrists of yellow hands that to a casual glance might, in
their affected ease, have passed for patrician. Like Passepoil, he
carried a sword, and, like Passepoil, he knew how to use it, although,
unlike Passepoil, he was really of a timid disposition, and never engaged
in any encounter in which he was not certain that his skill was far
superior to that of his opponent.

He affected the manners of a fine gentleman, and modelled himself as much
as he dared upon the carriage of his master, when his master was not by,
and, like the most of such copying apes, he overdid the part. His face
was curiously unpleasant, long and yellowish white and inexpressive, with
drooping eyelids masking pale, shifty eyes, with a drooping, ungainly
nose, and a mouth that seemed like a mistake of nature.

When Martine had placed her lantern to her satisfaction upon its Bacchic
pedestal, she slipped from the room as quietly as she had entered it,
answering as she went, with a glance of disdain, the passion of
admiration that glowed in the eyes and twitched in the fingers of Norman
Passepoil. The people that kept that evil Inn, the people that served
that evil Inn, always left their sinister customers to themselves to kiss
or kill, as best pleased them.

On the entrance of Monsieur Peyrolles the bravos rose and saluted him
ceremoniously. If there was any hidden mockery, any latent contempt, any
unconscious hate felt by the brave scoundrels for the cowardly scoundrel
in their reverence, it was not evident to the new-comer, who took the
greetings with offensive condescension, eying the bandits over the lace
edges of his kerchief.

Staupitz advanced some few feet to greet him. "Welc