An angry exclamation came from the table at which de Mezy sat, and his satellites, Nemours and Le Moyne, swept the three with looks meant to be contemptuous.  Monsieur Berryer raised deprecating hands and was about to speak, but, probably seeing that both hands and words would be of no avail, moved quietly to one side.  He did not like to have quarrels in his excellent Inn of the Eagle, but they were no new thing there, for the gilded youth of Quebec was hot and intemperate.

“But when a man is foolish in our village,” resumed Tayoga, “and the words issue from his mouth in a stream like the cackling of a jay bird, the chiefs do not send warriors to punish him, but give him into the hands of the old women, who bind him and beat him with sticks until they can beat sense back into him.”

“A good way, Tayoga, a most excellent way,” said Robert.  “People who have reached the years of maturity pay no attention to the vaporings and madness of the foolish.”

He did not look around, but he heard a gusty exclamation, the scrape of a chair on the floor, and a hasty step.  Then he felt a hot breath, and, although he did not look up, he knew that de Mezy, flushed with drink and anger, was standing over him.  The temperament that nature had given to him, the full strength of which he was only discovering, asserted itself.  He too felt wrath inside, but he retained all the presence of mind for which he afterward became famous.

“Shall we go out and see more of the city, Tayoga?” he asked.

“Not until I have had a word with you, young sprig of a Bostonnais,” said de Mezy, his florid face now almost a flaming red.

“Your pardon, sir,” said Robert, with his uncommon fluency of speech, “I have not the advantage of your acquaintance, which, no doubt, is my loss, as I admit that there are many good and brave men whom I do not know.”

“I am Jean de Mezy, a count of France, a captain in the army of King Louis, and one of the most valued friends of our able Intendant, Francois Bigot.”

“I have heard of France, of course, I have heard, equally of course, of His Majesty, King Louis, I have even heard of the Intendant, Francois Bigot, but, and sorry I am to say it, I have never heard of the Count Jean de Mezy.”

A low laugh came from a distant corner of the room, and the red of de Mezy’s face turned to purple.  His hand dropped to the hilt of his sword, but Le Moyne whispered to him and he became more collected.

“In Quebec,” he said, throwing back his shoulders and raising his chin, “an officer of His Majesty, King Louis, does not accept an insult.  We preserve our honor with the edge of our swords, and for that reason I intend to let a good quantity of the hot blood out of you with mine.  There is a good place near the St. Louis gate, and the hour may be as early as you wish.”

“He is but a boy,” interposed Willet.

“But I know the sword,” said Robert, who had made up his mind, and who was measuring his antagonist.  “I will meet you tomorrow morning just after sunrise with the small sword, and my seconds will confer with yours tonight.”