CHAPTER XIII.
George Waldeaux hummed a tune gayly as he climbed the winding maze of streets in Vannes, one cloudy afternoon, with Lisa.
"It is impertinent to be modern Americans in this old town," he said.
"We might play that we were jongleurs, and that it was still mediaeval times.

I am sure the gray walls yonder and the fortress houses in this street have not changed in ages." "Neither have the smells, apparently," said Lisa grimly.

"Wrap this scarf about your throat, George.

You coughed last night." George tied up his throat.

"Coughed, did I ?" he said anxiously.