Surely no single moment in Gaston’s short life had ever been a prouder one.
For once, he was an acknowledged victor on English soil, and no one remembered to call him “French froggy.”
But alack! alack! they did not forget for long.
Flushed though he was by his victory, Gaston was genuinely grieved at Hubert’s pitiable plight, for he was crying bitterly now, not from his hurts—he was not so babyish—it was the mortification of having been beaten by
