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Each in his way moved his lips in his accustomed prayer until the sound of the distant bell ceased. "Now, then, for your dirty blood!" roared Barbemouche, instantly resuming animation. But his fat comrade knocked aside Barbemouche's sword, and at the same time pushed Francois out of striking distance.
Both showed the marks of reverses and hard drinking. Barbemouche's sword was, manifestly, no longer in the pay of the Duke of Guise, but was ready to serve the first bidder. Barbemouche shrugged his shoulders at De Berquin's reproof, and led his three sorry-looking companions to a bench in front of the inn, where they searched their pockets for coin before venturing to cross the threshold.
Their horses were probably not far away. "Ha!" laughed De Berquin, in answer to my words and movement. "So you don't share Barbemouche's own opinion of his beauty?" An unctuous guffaw from the fat rascal, and a grim chuckle from gaunt Francois, indicated that Barbemouche's ugliness was a favorite subject of mirth with his comrades.
"I was but the servant of the Duke of Guise then," said Barbemouche. At this point Blaise, who, in all our experiences with De Berquin and his henchmen, had not while sober come within hearing of Barbemouche's voice, or within close sight of him, stepped up and said, coolly: "Let me see the face that goes with that voice."
And he threw up the front of Barbemouche's hat with one hand, at the same time raising the front of his own with the other. The two men regarded each other for a moment. "Praise to the God of Israel, we meet again!" cried Blaise, in a loud voice, catching the other by the throat. "Who are you?" demanded Barbemouche.
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