Some one laughed aloud.

“Monsieur Nicot, for pity’s sake, remember where you are!” Maitre le Borgne pressed back the soldier.

“Ah! it is Monsieur Nicot who has such a delicate nose?” said the youth banteringly.  “Well, Monsieur Nicot, permit me to finish this excellent pie.  I have tasted nothing half so good since I left Paris.”

“Postilion!” cried Nicot, pushing Le Borgne aside.

“Monsieur,” continued the youth imperturbably, “I am on the king’s service.”

Several at the tables stretched their necks to observe the stranger.  A courier from the king was not an everyday event in Rochelle.  De Puys rose.

“Pah!” snorted Nicot; “you look the groom a league off.  Leave the table.”

“All in good time, Monsieur.  If I wear the livery of a stable-boy, it is because I was compelled by certain industrious gentlemen of the road to adopt it in exchange for my own.  The devil! one does not ride naked in March.  They left me only my sword and papers and some pistoles which I had previously hidden in the band of my hat.  Monsieur, I find a chair; I take it.  Having ordered a pie, I eat it; in fact, I continue to eat it, though your displeasure causes me great sorrow.  Sit down, or go away; otherwise you will annoy me; and I warn you that I am something terrible when I am annoyed.”  But the good nature on his face belied this statement.

“Rascal, I will flog you with the flat of my sword!” roared Nicot; and he was about to draw when a strong hand restrained him.

“Patience, comrade, patience; you go too fast.”  Du Puys loosened Nicot’s hand.

The young man leaned back in his chair and twirled the ends of his blond mustache.  “If I were not so tired I could enjoy this comedy.  Horns of Panurge! did you Huguenots eat so many horses that your gorge rises at the smell of one?”

“Monsieur, are you indeed from the king?” asked Du Puys courteously.  The very coolness of the stranger marked him as a man of importance.

“I have that honor.”

“May I be so forward as to ask your name?”

“Victor de Saumaise, cadet in her Majesty’s Guards, De Guitaut’s company.”

“And your business?”

“The king’s, Monsieur; horns of Panurge, the king’s! which is to say, none of yours.”  This time he pushed back his chair, stood upon his feet and swung his sword in place.  “Is this once more a rebel city?  And are you, Monsieur, successor to Guibon, the mayor, or the governor of the province, or some equally distinguished person, to question me in this fashion?  I never draw my sword in pothouses; I simply dine in them; otherwise I should be tempted to find out why a gentleman can not be left in peace.”

“Your reply, Monsieur,” returned Du Puys, coloring, “would be entirely just were it not for the fact that a messenger from Paris directly concerns me.  I am Captain Zachary du Puys, of Fort Louis, Quebec.”