“Now, by my father's hand!” said the youth, “I taken for a spy!—By Heaven, he shall brook cold iron that brands me with such a charge!—But for my uncle's name, I care not who knows it—it is Lesly. Lesly—an honest and noble name.”
“And so it is, I doubt not,” said the old man; “but there are three of the name in the Scottish Guard.”
“My uncle's name is Ludovic Lesly,” said the young man.
“Of the three Leslys,” answered the merchant, “two are called Ludovic.”
“They call my kinsman Ludovic with the Scar,” said Quentin. “Our family names are so common in a Scottish house, that, where there is no land in the case, we always give a to-name [surname].”
“A nom de guerre [the war name; formerly taken by French soldiers on entering the service. Hence a fictitious name assumed for other purposes.], I suppose you to mean,” answered his companion; “and the man you speak of, we, I think, call Le Balafre, from that scar on his face—a proper man, and a good soldier. I wish I may be able to help you to an interview with him, for he belongs to a set of gentlemen whose duty is strict, and who do not often come out of garrison, unless in the immediate attendance on the King's person.—And now, young man, answer me one question. I will wager you are desirous to take service with your uncle in the Scottish Guard. It is a great thing, if you propose so; especially as you are very young, and some years' experience is necessary for the high office which you aim at.”
“Perhaps I may have thought on some such thing,” said Durward, carelessly; “but if I did, the fancy is off.”
“How so, young man?” said the Frenchman, something sternly, “Do you speak thus of a charge which the most noble of your countrymen feel themselves emulous to be admitted to?”
“I wish them joy of it,” said Quentin, composedly. “To speak plain, I should have liked the service of the French King full well; only, dress me as fine and feed me as high as you will, I love the open air better than being shut up in a cage or a swallow's nest yonder, as you call these same grated pepper boxes. Besides,” he added, in a lower voice, “to speak truth, I love not the Castle when the covin tree bears such acorns as I see yonder.”
[The large tree in front of a Scottish castle was sometimes called so. It is difficult to trace the derivation; but at that distance from the castle the laird received guests of rank, and thither he conveyed them on their departure. S.]