“He has, to be sure, acquired the character of a stout swords-man,” said the Bernardin, “to give the poor devil his due.”

“He has not met with his match at the salle-d’armes, though he has crossed blades with the first in France,” replied Ogilvy.

“I have seen him at the Manege,” said the Sorbonist, “go through his course of equitation, and being a not altogether unskillful horseman myself, I can report favorably of his performance.”

“There is none among your youth can sit a steed like him,” returned Ogilvy, “nor can any of the jousters carry off the ring with more certainty at the lists.  I would fain hold my tongue, but you enforce me to speak in his praise.”

“Body of Bacchus!” exclaimed the Spaniard, half unsheathing the lengthy weapon that hung by his side, “I will hold you a wager of ten rose-nobles to as many silver reals of Spain, that with this stanch Toledo I will overcome your vaunted Crichton in close fight in any manner or practice of fence or digladiation which he may appoint—­sword and dagger, or sword only—­stripped to the girdle or armed to the teeth.  By our Saint Trinidad!  I will have satisfaction for the contumelious affront he hath put upon the very learned gymnasium to which I belong; and it would gladden me to clip the wings of this loud-crowing cock, or any of his dunghill crew,” added he, with a scornful gesture at the Scotsman.

“If that be all you seek, you shall not need to go far in your quest,” returned Ogilvy.  “Tarry till this controversy be ended, and if I match not your Spanish blade with a Scottish broad-sword, and approve you as recreant at heart as you are boastful and injurious of speech, may Saint Andrew forever after withhold from me his protection.”

“The Devil!” exclaimed the Spaniard.  “Thy Scottish saint will little avail thee, since thou hast incurred my indignation.  Betake thee, therefore, to thy paternosters, if thou has grace withal to mutter them; for within the hour thou art assuredly food for the kites of the Pre-aux-Clercs—­sa-ha!”

“Look to thyself, vile braggart!” rejoined Ogilvy, scornfully:  “I promise thee thou shalt need other intercession than thine own to purchase safety at my hands.”

“Courage, Master Ogilvy,” said the Englishman, “thou wilt do well to slit the ears of this Spanish swashbuckler.  I warrant me he hides a craven spirit beneath that slashed pourpoint.  Thou art in the right, man, to make him eat his words.  Be this Crichton what he may, he is at least thy countryman, and in part mine own.”

“And as such I will uphold him,” said Ogilvy, “against any odds.”

“Bravo! my valorous Don Diego Caravaja,” said the Sorbonist, slapping the Spaniard on the shoulder, and speaking in his ear.  “Shall these scurvy Scots carry all before them?—­I warrant me, no.  We will make common cause against the whole beggarly nation; and in the meanwhile we intrust thee with this particular quarrel.  See thou acquit thyself in it as beseemeth a descendant of the Cid.”