“A gentleman, your honour!” he gasped.  “Your honour is joking again.  Surely this trumpery Scotchman in Jews’ finery is no gentleman, nor the longshore lout he has got with him.  They may go to the ‘Swan.’”

“Jews’ finery!” shouted the captain, with his fingers on his sword.

But the stranger held up a hand deprecatingly.

“’Pon my oath, Goble, I gave you credit for more penetration,” he drawled; “you may be right about the Scotchman, but your longshore lout has had both birth and breeding, or I know nothing.”

John Paul, who was in the act of bowing to the speaker, remained petrified with his hand upon his heart, entirely discomfited.  The landlord forsook him instantly for me, then stole a glance at his guest to test his seriousness, and looked at my face to see how greatly it were at variance with my clothes.  The temptation to lay hands on the cringing little toadeater grew too strong for me, and I picked him up by the scruff of the collar,—­he was all skin and bones,—­and spun him round like a corpse upon a gibbet, while he cried mercy in a voice to wake the dead.  The slim gentleman under the sign laughed until he held his sides, with a heartiness that jarred upon me.  It did not seem to fit him.

“By Hercules and Vulcan,” he cried, when at last I had set the landlord down, “what an arm and back the lad has!  He must have the best in the house, Goble, and sup with me.”

Goble pulled himself together.

“And he is your honour’s friend,” he began, with a scowl.

“Ay, he is my friend, I tell you,” retorted the important personage, impatiently.

The innkeeper, sulky, half-satisfied, yet fearing to offend, welcomed us with what grace he could muster, and we were shown to “The Fox and the Grapes,” a large room in the rear of the house.

John Paul had not spoken since the slim gentleman had drawn the distinction between us, and I knew that the affront was rankling in his breast.  He cast himself into a chair with such an air of dejection as made me pity him from my heart.  But I had no consolation to offer.  His first words, far from being the torrent of protest I looked for, almost startled me into laughter.

“He can be nothing less than a duke,” said the captain.  “Ah, Richard, see what it is to be a gentleman!”

“Fiddlesticks!  I had rather own your powers than the best title in England,” I retorted sharply.

He shook his head sorrowfully, which made me wonder the more that a man of his ability should be unhappy without this one bauble attainment.

“I shall begin to believe the philosophers have the right of it,” he remarked presently.  “Have you ever read anything of Monsieur Rousseau’s, Richard?”

The words were scarce out of his mouth when we heard a loud rap on the door, which I opened to discover a Swiss fellow in a private livery, come to say that his master begged the young gentleman would sup with him.  The man stood immovable while he delivered this message, and put an impudent emphasis upon the gentleman.