There was silence in the circle, Francis
himself was taken by surprise.

"'Tis too late to interpose," he said.

Bugençy made a deep bow to the king, and
left the hall.

"You are master of your fence, I trust,"
said Francis, good-naturedly, to Sir Caribert.
"'Tis a pity you quarrelled so soon; in a
week you would have learned who your
enemy is, and would have avoided him if you
could—"

"Not so," replied the youth; "if I had
known ten minutes ago, as now I know, that
he is Bugençy, the deftest sword-buckler in
France, I should have spared my glove and
marked his face with my hand. But the
Lady Herminie," he added, "has lost her
Venus, and is inconsolable; I must restore it
to her arms before I prepare Bugençy for his
confessor—and when I have done both," he
added, with a glance round the room, " I
have still an account to settle with a jester,
who seemed to challenge me to try my skill,
but I see him not; great wits jump, we are
told—they sometimes also run."

He left the hall in search of Herminie's
greyhound.

"By Clovis's thumbs! " cried the king—
(they had curious oaths, I repeat, in those
days)—" this young kestrel will fly at high
game if Bugençy doesn't clip his wings.
Meanwhile, gentlemen, get ready, for the duel will
take place in the tilt-yard at three of the
clock, and it is now half-past two."

"Is it to the death? " inquired the Bishop
of Aigos Potamos, who lived a long way from
his diocese.

The king made a motion with his head.

"I am sorry for it," said the bishop, "for
if it had merely been a skirmish till blood-
flow, I should like to have seen Bugençy
trounce this countryman."

"He'll do it at the third lunge—for twenty
roubles!" cried Beauvillon.

"Done! not till the sixth; for the bumpkin
is long in the arm and active in limb,"
replied Vascon de Bere, and took the bet.

"A golden goblet to-night at supper," cried
the king, " to the lord who shall write the
best epitaph on Sir Cuthbert of the Leaf—"

"Tis mine, your majesty, already," said
Leonard de la Fosse; " I thought of it while
Bugençy was making his bow.

     " Here lies Sir Caribert the vain,
     By quarrelsome Bugençy slain;
     One wounded with his pointed word,
     And t'other with his pointed sword."

"Admirable! bravo! You shall have the
cup," said Francis, enraptured.

"And a cap, too, my good fellow!" chimed
in Saint Marceau, who had ventured to
resume his place; " aye, and bells to it
besides, and a pretty bauble in your hand, and
a parti-coloured coat to your back, for
Triboulet has not chance—"

"Hush! Saint Marceau," said De la Fosse,
"there's Caribert coming; and who knows but
he may be going to horsewhip YOU before he
measures swords with Bugençy!"

I have said they had curious oaths in those
days; they had excellent wit, too, and a great
deal of gentlemanly feeling.

CHAPTER THE SECOND.

"AND Herminie?" said the jovial Francis,
three months after this adventure; " has she
recovered her spirits since the misadventure
to her greyhound?"

"She disregards it entirely, your majesty,"
replied Etienne Fitzyonne; " nay, to show
how little she values all the trouble taken
for its recovery, it is supposed she has either
hung it to an apple-tree in the orchard, by
the ribbon of her waistband, or is starving it
in some remote corner of her apartment. No
one has seen it since it was so publicly
restored by the happy man who found it."

"And out of compliment to his endeavours
to please her," said the Chevalier des Ursins,
"she keeps an English mastiff which tears
down an ox when it wants a little refreshment,
and has scattered dismay in the good
city of Paris."

"A strange damsel, who will always have
her way," said Charles de Beaupere,
sententiously pursing his lips.

"Is that an extremely quiet, shy, modest
young creature," inquired Philibert Baron de
Nancy, " whom I met at your majesty's
palace in the Marais last May, when that
unfortunate business happened between Sir
Caribert of the Leaf and—and—I forget the
poor man's name—the swordsman—the
challenger—the bravo—"

"Ha! " said Francis, putting his forefinger
to his brow. " What was the poor man's
name? He was disarmed at the first pass,
and slain before we could count ten—I wish
I could remember who it was."

All the courtiers put their forefingers to
their brows and tried to remember the name
of the unfortunate man.

"A silved-hilted dagger," cried the king,
"to the man that tells me who it was that
Sir Caribert of the Leaf exterminated the
first day he came to court."

"It was Bugençy, if it please you,"
observed the Vicompte de la Fosse. " I lost a
silver flagon to your majesty for writing an
epitaph on the wrong man."

"As you shall certainly lose a silver dagger
if you give us the wrong name of the
defunct," replied the king. "But there was
another—the fellow that used to make us
laugh—whom Sir Caribert silenced after the
duel. By St. Genevieve's ankles!" (they had
curious oaths, as I have said in those days)
"I marvel our memory is so bad!"

"Saint Marceau you mean," suggested the
Chatelain de Montcoucy. " He is now in the
Convent of the Cordéliers of Tours—they say
very holy—engaged in writing the loves of
Solomon and the Queen of Sheba. When Sir
Caribert sent to him the sword, still reeking,