After all, Bastien Lagrange had been more frightened than hurt by Antoine the bear.  When Pepin Quesnelle had satisfied himself that there were no bones broken, and that the wound from which the blood flowed was a mere scratch, he, as usual, became ashamed of his late display of feeling and concern, and again assumed his old truculent attitude.  He gave the breed time to recover his breath, then roughly asked him whom he thought he was that he should make such a noisy and ostentatious entry into his house.

“It ees me, Pepin, your ver’ dear friend, Bastien Lagrange,” whined the big breed, with an aggrieved look at the dwarf and an apprehensive one at Antoine.

“What, villain, coquin, I your ver’ dear friend? —­may the good Lord forbid!  But sit up, and let me once more look upon your ugly face.  Idiot, entrez! Sit up, and take this for to drink.”  So spoke Pepin as he handed Bastien a dipper of water.

In all truth the shifty breed had an expression on his face as he tried to put his torn garments to rights that savoured not a little of idiocy.  He had been for the last three hours working himself into a mood of unconcern and even defiance, so that he might be able to repel the attacks of the outspoken Pepin.  But now, at the very first words this terrible manikin uttered, he felt his heart sinking down into his boots.  Still, he bore news which he fancied would rather stagger the dwarf.

“And so, mon ami—­”

“Tenez vous la, villain!  You will pardon me, but I am not the friend of a turncoat and traitor! Dis donc, you will bear this in mind.  Now what is it you have for to say? Bien?”

“Parbleu! what ees ze matter wit’ Antoine?” exclaimed the breed uneasily.  “What for he look at me so?  Make him for to go ’way, Pepin.”

Pepin caught up his stick and changed the trend of Antoine’s aggressive thoughts.  The big brute slunk to the far end of the room, sat upon his haunches, and blinked at the party in a disconcerting fashion.  Then Pepin again turned upon Bastien with such a quick, fierce movement that the latter started involuntarily.

“Bah! blockhead, pudding-head!” cried Pepin impatiently.  “Antoine has only that fire in his mouth that you will have in the pit below before two, three days when you have been hanged by the neck or been shot by the soldiers of the great Queen.  Proceed!”

“Aha! you ver’ funny man, Pepin, but do you know that Poundmaker has been catch what zey call ze convoy—­sixteen wagons wit’ ze drivers and ze soldiers belongin’ to your great Queen, and now zey haf no more food and zey perish?  Haf you heard that, mon—­M’sieur Pepin?”