Suddenly, however, he gave a laugh and said, "Listen. Hark to him how he sings as he rides along. 'Tis La Truaumont who has drunk his last cup in Paris quicker than one might have deemed, and has caught us on the road sooner than I, who know him well, could have expected."
And so, in truth, it was. Upon the night air were borne the strains of a song the adventurer was singing: in a deep, rich voice was being trilled forth the chanson:--
Pour faire ton âme et ton corps
Le ciel épuisa ses trésors,
Landrirette, Landriri.
En grâces, en beauté, en attraits
Nul n'égalera jamais,
Landrirette, Landriri.
"Hola!" he cried, breaking off suddenly in his tribute of admiration to some real or imaginary beauty while reining in his steed with a sudden jerk. "Hola! What have we here? Young gallants in cloak, plume and sword; the great and mighty Prince de----"
"Peace. No names, imbecile," exclaimed the latter.
"And all the basketful," La Truaumont continued, taking no notice of his leader's words. "My own beloved Fleur de Mai, countryman and companion----"
"'Tis true, though you say it," growled Fleur de Mai in a harsh, sonorous voice.