“A fall, a fall!” he shouted.  “Here’s the all-conquering Jean Marchand tripped up for once.  He thinks nothing that wears petticoats can withstand him, but here’s a maid that hasn’t a word to throw at him.”

“Pshaw! she doesn’t understand me,” Jean returned, undaunted, and promptly pointed a finger at my mouth and then raised his fist to his own, with sucks and gulps.  I allowed myself to comprehend then.  I smiled in as coquettish a fashion as I could contrive, and glanced on the ground, and slowly looked up again and nodded.

The men burst into loud applause.

“Good old Jean!  Jean wins.  Well played, Jean!  Vive Jean!”

Jean, flushed with triumph, ran off on his errand, while I thought of Margot, the steward’s daughter, at home, and tried to recollect every air and grace I had ever seen her flaunt before us lads.  It was not bad fun, this.  I hid my hands under my apron and spoke not at all, but sighed and smiled and blushed under their stares like any fine lady.  Once in one’s life, for one hour, it is rather amusing to be a girl.  But that is quite long enough, say I.

Jean came again directly with a great silver tankard.

“Burgundy, pardieu!” cried one of his mates, sticking his nose into the pot as it passed him, “and full!  Ciel, you must think your lass has a head.”

“Oh, I shall drink with her,” Jean answered.

I put out my hand for the tankard, running the risk of my big paw’s betraying me, resolved that he should not drink with me of that draught, when of a sudden he leaned over to snatch a kiss.  I dodged him, more frightened than the shyest maid.  Though in this half-light I might perfectly look a girl, I could not believe I should kiss like one.  In a panic, I fled from Jean to my master’s side.

M. Etienne, wheeling about, came near to laughing out in my face, when he remembered his part and played it with a zeal that was like to undo us.  He sprang to his feet, drawing his dagger.

“Who insults my sister?” he shouted.  “Who is the dog does this!”

They were on him, wrenching the knife from his hand, wrenching his lame arm at the same time so painfully that he gasped.  I was scared chill; I knew if they mishandled him they would brush the wig off.

“Mind your manners, sirrah!” Jean cried.

Monsieur’s ardour vanished; a gentle, appealing smile spread over his face.

“I cry your pardon, sir,” he said to Jean; then turning to Pierre, “This messer does not understand me.  But tell him, I beg you, I crave his good pardon.  I was but angered for a moment that any should think to touch my little sister.  I meant no harm.”

“Nor he,” Pierre retorted.  “A kiss, forsooth!  What do you expect with a handsome lass like that?  If you will take her about—­”

“Madame says the jeweller fellow is to come up,” our messenger announced, returning.

My lord besought Pierre: