This creature will only think that I am an eccentric Englishwoman eloping with her lacquey, if you'll sit down and partake of this semblance of supper beside me." Indeed, Brogard having placed what was strictly necessary upon the table, seemed not to trouble himself any further about his guests.

The Mere Brogard had quietly shuffled out of the room, and the man stood and lounged about, smoking his evil-smelling pipe, sometimes under Marguerite's very nose, as any free-born citizen who was anybody's equal should do.
"Confound the brute!" said Sir Andrew, with native British wrath, as Brogard leant up against the table, smoking and looking down superciliously at these two SACRRRES ANGLAIS.
"In Heaven's name, man," admonished Marguerite, hurriedly, seeing that Sir Andrew, with British-born instinct, was ominously clenching his fist, "remember that you are in France, and that in this year of grace this is the temper of the people." "I'd like to scrag the brute!" muttered Sir Andrew, savagely.
He had taken Marguerite's advice and sat next to her at table, and they were both making noble efforts to deceive one another, by pretending to eat and drink.
"I pray you," said Marguerite, "keep the creature in a good temper, so that he may answer the questions we must put to him." "I'll do my best, but, begad! I'd sooner scrag him than question him.
Hey! my friend," he said pleasantly in French, and tapping Brogard lightly on the shoulder, "do you see many of our quality along these parts?
Many English travellers, I mean ?" Brogard looked round at him, over his near shoulder, puffed away at his pipe for a moment or two as he was in no hurry, then muttered,-- "Heu!--sometimes!" "Ah!" said Sir Andrew, carelessly, "English travellers always know where they can get good wine, eh! my friend ?--Now, tell me, my lady was desiring to know if by any chance you happen to have seen a great friend of hers, an English gentleman, who often comes to Calais on business; he is tall, and recently was on his way to Paris--my lady hoped to have met him in Calais." Marguerite tried not to look at Brogard, lest she should betray before him the burning anxiety with which she waited for his reply.

But a free-born French citizen is never in any hurry to answer questions: Brogard took his time, then he said very slowly,-- "Tall Englishman ?--To-day!--Yes." "Yes, to-day," muttered Brogard, sullenly.

Then he quietly took Sir Andrew's hat from a chair close by, put it on his own head, tugged at his dirty blouse, and generally tried to express in pantomime that the individual in question wore very fine clothes.

"SACRRE ARISTO!" he muttered, "that tall Englishman!" Marguerite could scarce repress a scream.
"It's Sir Percy right enough," she murmured, "and not even in disguise!" She smiled, in the midst of all her anxiety and through her gathering tears, at the thought of "the ruling passion strong in death"; of Percy running into the wildest, maddest dangers, with the latest-cut coat upon his back, and the laces of his jabot unruffled.
"Oh! the foolhardiness of it!" she sighed.