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“I perceive that monsieur is a connoisseur in these matters,” said Cazaio; “I am the more highly honored. Till Thursday, then.” And with an inclination of his bandaged head–and a furtive glance toward the insensate woman,–he rode away singing.

Sang Achille Cazaio:

“But, oh, the world is wide, dear lass,
That I must wander through,
And many a wind and tide, dear lass,
Must flow ‘twixt me and you,
Ere love that may not be denied
Shall bring me back to you,
–Dear lass!
Shall bring me back to you.”

Thus singing, he disappeared; meantime John Bulmer had turned toward the woman. The Dominican sat upon the stone, placidly grinning.

“And now,” said John Bulmer, “we revert to the origin of all this tomfoolery,–who, true to every instinct of her sex, has caused as much trouble as lay within her power and then fainted. A little water from the brook, if you will be so good. Master Friar,–Hey!–why, you damned rascal!”

As John Bulmer bent above the woman, the Friar had stabbed John Bulmer between the shoulders. The dagger broke like glass.

“Oh, the devil!” said the churchman; “what sort of a duellist is this who fights in a shirt of Milanese armor!” He stood for a moment, silent, in sincere horror. “I lack words,” he said,–“Oh, vile coward! I lack words to arraign this hideous revelation! There is a code of honor that obtains all over the world, and any duellist who descends to secret armor is, as you are perfectly aware, guilty of supersticery. He is no fit associate for gentlemen, he is rather the appropriate companion of Korah, Dathan, and Abiram in their fiery pit. Faugh, you sneak-thief!”

John Bulmer was a thought abashed, and for an instant showed it. Then, “Permit me,” he equably replied, “to point out that I did not come hither with any belligerent intent. My undershirt, therefore, I was entitled to regard as a purely natural advantage,–as much so as would have been a greater length of arm, which, you conceive, does not obligate a gentleman to cut off his fingers before he fights.”

“I scent the casuist,” said the Friar, shaking his head. “Frankly, you had hoodwinked me: I was admiring you as a second Palmerin; and all the while you were letting off those gasconades, adopting those heroic postures, and exhibiting such romantic magnanimity, you were actually as safe from poor Cazaio as though you had been in Crim Tartary rather than Acaire!”

“But the pose was magnificent,” John Bulmer pleaded, “and I have a leaning that way when one loses nothing by it. Besides, I consider secret armor to be no more than a rational precaution in any country where the clergy are addicted to casual assassination.”

“It is human to err,” the Friar replied, “and Cazaio would have given me a thousand crowns for your head. Believe me, the man is meditating some horrible mischief against you, for otherwise he would not have been so damnably polite.”

“The information is distressing,” said John Bulmer; and added, “This Cazaio appears to be a personage?”

“I retort,” said the Friar, “that your ignorance is even more remarkable than my news. Achille Cazaio is the bugbear of all Poictesme, he is as powerful in these parts as ever old Manuel was.”

“But I have never heard of this old Manuel either–“

“In fact, your ignorance seems limitless. For any child could tell you that Cazaio roosts in the Taunenfels yonder, with some hundreds of brigands in his company. Poictesme is, in effect, his pocket-book, from which he takes whatever he has need of, and the Duc de Puysange, our nominal lord, pays him an annual tribute to respect Bellegarde.”

“This appears to be an unusual country,” quoth John Bulmer; “where a brigand rules, and the forests are infested by homicidal clergymen and harassed females. Which reminds me that I have been guilty of an act of ungallantry,–and faith! while you and I have been chatting, the lady, with a rare discretion, has peacefully come back to her senses.”