“Canaille,” he returned, in tone of undisguised contempt, “Canadian half-breeds, the very offscourings of our people. Sacre! but you should know us at home, Monsieur,—­we are the conquerors of the world!”

I wish I could picture to you how he said this.  Simple as it now reads, he made it vital with meaning.  The insolent boast was uttered with such a swagger that my face instantly flushed, and he noted it.

“Is it not true, Monsieur?” he asked quickly, his own blood heated by the wine.  “I tell you, the whole of Europe has trembled, and will again, at the nod of our Napoleon.  Why, even over here we had to come with our legions to help you repel the redcoats.  Saint Guise! but it was the Frenchmen who made you a nation.”

“Ay! but only that they might revenge themselves upon England,” I retorted blindly, “and the force sent merely hurried a result already inevitable; yet we gave you a slight touch of our own quality in ’98 that stung a bit, I warrant.”

“Bah! a ship or two.  ’Twas well for you that our army was so closely engaged elsewhere, or the story would have a different ending.”

We were both of us upon our feet by this time, glaring at each other across the board, our faces hot with the ill-restrained passion of youth.  A word more from either would surely have precipitated matters; but before it could be spoken the door leading into the hallway was hurriedly flung aside, and, without apology for the intrusion, two men strode forward into the glare of light.

“Serve supper here, Hawkins,” commanded the first, his back still turned toward us.  “Anything you may chance to have in the house,—­only let there be little delay.”

He was a tall, dark-featured man, smoothly shaven, as swarthy as an Indian, with stern dark eyes, thick coarse hair, and an abrupt manner born of long command.  His companion, of lighter build and younger face, was attired in a travel-stained uniform of blue and buff; but he who was evidently the leader was so completely wrapped within the folds of a riding-cloak as to reveal nothing of rank other than his unmistakable military presence and bearing.  Turning from the door, he swept a penetrating glance over us, loosening the clasp of his cloak as he did so.

“I regret having thoughtlessly interrupted your quarrel, gentlemen,” he said brusquely, “but this appears to be the sole excuse for a public-room in the place.  However, my services are at your command if they be desired in any way.”

De Croix laughed, perfectly at his ease in a moment.

“’T is scarce so serious,” he explained lightly.  “A mere interchange of compliments over the respective merits of our nations in war.”

The stranger looked at him intently, and with some manifest disapproval.

“And yours, no doubt, was France,” he said shortly.

De Croix bowed, his hand upon his heart.

“I have worn her uniform, Monsieur.”