"I am obeying my master," the other replied; "the only one I acknowledge—when I parley with you. Show me your warrant, however, for coming to this house."
"There it is," replied St. Georges; "take it to your master, bid him read it, and then bring me whatever message he may send me. Perhaps"—regarding the servitor through the wicket, as he gave him the paper—"if the master is like the man I had best wait until he has read the king's letter ere I seek shelter for my horse. It may be that I shall have to demand it for myself also at the inn."
Then, to his amazement, he saw that the other had opened the leaves of the king's letter and was calmly reading them. "Fellow!" he exclaimed, "how dare you make so bold? You read a letter from the king to me—to be shown to your master——"
"Pish!" replied the other. "Be silent. I am Phélypeaux."
"You!" exclaimed the soldier, stepping back—"you!" and his eye fell on the rusty-brown clothing of the man half in, half out, the wicket. "You!"
"Yes, I. Now go and put your horse up at the inn. Then come back. But stay—what have you beneath your arm?"
"A child."
"A child! Does Louis think I keep a nursery? What are we to do with the child while you stay here?"
"I will attend to that. If you give me a bed the child will share it, and if you have some white bread and milk it is enough for its food."
"Best get that at the 'Ours,'" replied he who said he was Phélypeaux. "Bread I have, but no milk. Ma foi! there is no babes' food here. Now, I counsel you, go seek the inn. Your horse may take a chill. Then come back. And"—as the soldier turned to lead his animal across the snow-covered, deserted place—"leave the child there. The patronne is a motherly creature with half a dozen of her own brood. 'Twill be better there than here. Ring loudly when you return—I am somewhat deaf," and he banged the wicket in St. Georges's face.