“Ah, that is it, is it?” said the mischievous girl. “Really, this ribbon has the same effect on you, that a scarlet streamer has on a bull from Camargne.”
“If I were a bull from Camargue, with double horns, this vagabond would feel the point of them. But no matter, this miscreant shall pay for his insolence; may I die, if I do not cut off his ears and nail them to the mast of my tartan!”
“It is his tongue, rather, that you ought to be jealous of, my poor Luquin, for never a troubadour of the good King René sang more sweetly.”
“I will tear out his tongue, then,—a hundred thousand devils!”
“Come, do not do anything absurd, Luquin. The Bohemian is as courageous and expert as a gendarme.” “Many thanks for your pity, mademoiselle, but I do not fight with dogs, I beat them.”
“Yes, but sometimes the dog has good teeth which bite very hard, I warn you.”
“Curse me, if you are not the most diabolical creature I ever knew!” cried Trinquetaille. “I believe, by St. Elmo, my patron, that if I were to fight to-morrow in camp with this copper face, you would say: ‘Our Lady for the Bohemian!’”
“Without doubt, I would say it.”
“You would say it?”
“Why, yes. Ought I not to take the part of the weak against the strong,—the small against the great? Ought I not at least to encourage the poor man who would dare challenge the formidable, unconquerable arm of the captain of The Holy Terror to the Moors?”