“Have a care, little man!” cried the girl gaily—­yet half in pity, I think.  “Or that fat pig will kill you!”

My antagonist did not join in the laugh this time.  Indeed it struck me that his eye wandered and that he was not so ready to enter the ring as his mates were to form it.  But before I could try his mettle, a hand was laid on my shoulder.  A man appearing from I do not know where—­from the dark fringe of the group, I suppose—­pushed me aside, roughly, but not discourteously.

“Leave this to me!” he said, coolly stepping before me.  “Do not dirty your hands with the knave, master.  I am pining for work and the job will just suit me!  I will fit him for the worms before the nuns above can say an Ave!”

I looked at the newcomer.  He was a stout fellow; not over tall, nor over big; swarthy, with prominent features.  The plume of his bonnet was broken, but he wore it in a rakish fashion; and altogether he swaggered with so dare-devil an air, clinking his spurs and swinging out his long sword recklessly, that it was no wonder three or four of the nearest fellows gave back a foot.

“Come on!” he cried, boisterously, forming a ring by the simple process of sweeping his blade from side to side, while he made the dagger in his left hand flash round his head.  “Who is for the game?  Who will strike a blow for the little Admiral?  Will you come one, two, three at once; or all together?  Anyway, come on, you—­” And he closed his challenge with a volley of frightful oaths, directed at the group opposite.

“It is no quarrel of yours,” said the big man, sulkily; making no show of drawing his sword, but rather drawing back himself.

“All quarrels are my quarrels! and no quarrels are your quarrels.  That is about the truth, I fancy!” was the smart retort; which our champion rendered more emphatic by a playful lunge that caused the big bully to skip again.

There was a loud laugh at this, even among the enemy’s backers.  “Bah, the great pig!” ejaculated the girl above.  “Spit him!” and she spat down on the whilom Hector—­who made no great figure now.

“Shall I bring you a slice of him, my dear?” asked my rakehelly friend, looking up and making his sword play round the shrinking wretch.  “Just a tit-bit, my love?” he added persuasively.  “A mouthful of white liver and caper sauce?”

“Not for me, the beast!” the girl cried, amid the laughter of the yard.

“Not a bit?  If I warrant him tender?  Ladies’ meat?”

“Bah! no!” and she stolidly spat down again.

“Do you hear?  The lady has no taste for you,” the tormentor cried.  “Pig of a Gascon!” And deftly sheathing his dagger, he seized the big coward by the ear, and turning him round, gave him a heavy kick which sent him spinning over a bucket, and down against the wall.  There the bully remained, swearing and rubbing himself by turns; while the victor cried boastfully, “Enough of him.  If anyone wants to take up his quarrel, Blaise Bure is his man.  If not, let us have an end of it.  Let someone find stalls for the gentlemen’s horses before they catch a chill; and have done with it.  As for me,” he added, and then he turned to us and removed his hat with an exaggerated flourish, “I am your lordship’s servant to command.”