"We must report the matter to Lord Crawford, our Captain, in the first place, and have the young fellow's name put on the roll." "But, gentlemen, and my worthy friends and preservers," said Quentin, with some hesitation, "I have not yet determined whether to take service with you or no." "Then settle in your own mind," said his uncle, "whether you choose to do so, or be hanged--for I promise you, that, nephew of mine as you are, I see no other chance of your 'scaping the gallows." This was an unanswerable argument, and reduced Quentin at once to acquiesce in what he might have otherwise considered as no very agreeable proposal; but the recent escape from the halter, which had been actually around his neck, would probably have reconciled him to a worse alternative than was proposed.
"He must go home with us to our caserne," said Cunningham; "there is no safety for him out of our bounds, whilst these man hunters are prowling." "May I not then abide for this night at the hostelry where I breakfasted, fair uncle ?" said the youth--thinking, perhaps, like many a new recruit, that even a single night of freedom was something gained.
"Yes, fair nephew," answered his uncle, ironically, "that we may have the pleasure of fishing you out of some canal or moat, or perhaps out of a loop of the Loire, knit up in a sack for the greater convenience of swimming--for that is like to be the end on't.

The Provost Marshal smiled on us when we parted," continued he, addressing Cunningham, "and that is a sign his thoughts were dangerous." "I care not for his danger," said Cunningham; "such game as we are beyond his bird bolts.

But I would have thee tell the whole to the Devil's Oliver [Oliver Dain: Oliver's name, or nickname, was Le Diable, which was bestowed on him by public hatred, in exchange for Le Daim, or Le Dain.

He was originally the King's barber, but afterwards a favourite counsellor.

S.], who is always a good friend to the Scottish Guard, and will see Father Louis before the Provost can, for he is to shave him tomorrow." "But hark you," said Balafre, "it is ill going to Oliver empty handed, and I am as bare as the birch in December." "So are we all," said Cunningham.