“To think that we shall none of us ever come back again!” said Maragougnia, in a melancholy voice, as he wiped away a tear with the sleeve of his chain-mail.
“Pshaw! who knows?” broke in Porc-en-Truie, with a smile. “Let us set out, and then we can see!”
They appointed to meet on the borders of the forest, and within an hour afterwards they’ were all on the spot, equipped for war or for travel.
Porc-en-Truie, Lord of Machavoine, was a great fellow of thirty years of age, more skilled in avoiding blows than in dealing them. He invariably shirked all his military duties, not because he was a coward, but because he was incorrigibly idle. He had been known to tramp three hours afoot to save himself the trouble of saddling his horse, and he had killed his dearest friend in a tournament, in order to terminate a long and fatiguing tilting match. He arrived at the rendezvous on horseback, with no weapon but his sword.
“How imprudent!” cried Allegrignac, the moment he saw him coming. “Are we going to a wedding only, or are you desirous of emulating Miton’s great feat at the Tourney of Fronsac?”
“I hate a load of weapons, and I don’t mean to kill myself for this Mitaine—for whom, between you and me, I don’t care a grain of mustard-seed!”
