I thanked him with a heartiness, half-earnest, half-assumed.  His cloak was ragged, his trunk hose, which had once been fine enough, were stained, and almost pointless, He swaggered inimitably, and had led-captain written large upon him.  But he had done us a service, for Jean had no further trouble about the horses.  And besides one has a natural liking for a brave man, and this man was brave beyond question.

“You are from Orleans,” he said respectfully enough, but as one asserting a fact, not asking a question.

“Yes,” I answered, somewhat astonished, “Did you see us come in?”

“No, but I looked at your boots, gentlemen,” he replied.  “White dust, north; red dust, south.  Do you see?”

“Yes, I see,” I said, with admiration.  “You must have been brought up in a sharp school, M. Bure.”

“Sharp masters make sharp scholars,” he replied, grinning.  And that answer I had occasion to remember afterwards.

“You are from Orleans, also?” I asked, as we prepared to go in.

“Yes, from Orleans too, gentlemen.  But earlier in the day.  With letters—­letters of importance!” And bestowing something like a wink of confidence on us, he drew himself up, looked sternly at the stable-folk, patted himself twice on the chest, and finally twirled his moustaches, and smirked at the girl above, who was chewing straws.

I thought it likely enough that we might find it hard to get rid of him.  But this was not so.  After listening with gratification to our repeated thanks, he bowed with the same grotesque flourish, and marched off as grave as a Spaniard, humming—­

  “Ce petit homme tant joli! 
  Qui toujours cause et toujours rit,
  Qui toujours baise sa mignonne,
  Dieu gard’ de mal ce petit homme!”

On our going in, the landlord met us politely, but with curiosity, and a simmering of excitement also in his manner.  “From Paris, my lords?” he asked, rubbing his hands and bowing low.  “Or from the south?”

“From the south,” I answered.  “From Orleans, and hungry and tired, Master Host.”

“Ah!” he replied, disregarding the latter part of my answer, while his little eyes twinkled with satisfaction.  “Then I dare swear, my lords, you have not heard the news?” He halted in the narrow passage, and lifting the candle he carried, scanned our faces closely, as if he wished to learn something about us before he spoke.

“News!” I answered brusquely, being both tired, and as I had told him, hungry.  “We have heard none, and the best you can give us will be that our supper is ready to be served.”

But even this snub did not check his eagerness to tell his news.  “The Admiral de Coligny,” he said, breathlessly, “you have not heard what has happened to him?”

“To the admiral?  No, what?” I inquired rapidly.  I was interested at last.