This cunning boor had attired himself in a dark suit of respectable broad-cloth, with a clean white ruff round his neck, and a wooden rosary of portentous size at his right wrist; thus he had all the air of a worthy citizen, though his scrubby black hair was brushed straight down to his small stealthy eyes, and cut off squarely above his long and pendant ears.
"You wish to speak with me?" said Gray, in French.
Langfanger, who had served in several countries, replied readily in the same language: "I have a message to monsieur!"
"From whom?"
"A fair demoiselle," replied Carl, in his most insinuating voice, and a glitter in his cunning eyes.
"Indeed—then carry your message elsewhere—you have come to the wrong quarter, my friend," replied Gray, curtly, as he detected something of the bravo in the air of his visitor.
"But the demoiselle is in distress," urged Carl, with some alarm lest his errand might fail.
"I am not the burgomaster, and knights errant are out of fashion, my friend; but who is she?"
"I know not her name, messire," stammered Carl, who had omitted to inform himself of this rather important particular.
"By whom—and in what manner is she wronged?"