“This sounds very polite, worthy sir,” said Quentin, “but, by the Cross of Saint Andrew, I cannot even guess at your meaning.”
“Your oath,” answered the merchant of Liege, “as well as your accent, convinces me that we are right in our conjecture.”
“By my patron Saint Quentin!” said Durward, “I am farther off from your meaning than ever.”
“There again now,” rejoined the Liegeois, looking, as he spoke, most provokingly, yet most civilly, politic and intelligent.
“It is surely not for us to see that which you, worthy seignior, deem it proper to conceal: But why swear by Saint Quentin, if you would not have me construe your meaning?—We know the good Count of Saint Paul, who lies there at present, wishes well to our cause.”
“On my life,” said Quentin, “you are under some delusion.—I know nothing of Saint Paul.”
“Nay, we question you not,” said the burgher, “although, hark ye—I say, hark in your ear—my name is Pavillon.”
“And what is my business with that, Seignior Pavillon?” said Quentin.
“Nay, nothing—only methinks it might satisfy you that I am trustworthy.—Here is my colleague Rouslaer, too.”
Rouslaer advanced, a corpulent dignitary, whose fair round belly, like a battering ram, “did shake the press before him,” and who, whispering caution to his neighbour, said in a tone of rebuke, “You forget, good colleague, the place is too open—the seignior will retire to your house or mine, and drink a glass of Rhenish and sugar, and then we shall hear more of our good friend and ally, whom we love with all our honest Flemish hearts.”