The new-comer was a young man of little over one-and-twenty, of medium
height, but with a well-built, well-knit figure that gave a promise of
extraordinary strength and power of endurance, coupled at the same time
with a scarcely less extraordinary suppleness. He had a face that was
certainly handsome, though many handsomer faces were familiar in Paris at
that day, but none more gallant, and, indeed, its chief charm was its
almost audacious air of self-reliance, of unfailing courage, of
changeless composure, and unconquerable humor. The eyes were bright and
laughing. Even now, although the man was undoubtedly angry, his eyes
still smiled in unison with his lips. His dark hair fell gracefully about
his shoulders. He wore a somewhat faded white coat, girdled with a
crimson sash--the white coat of a captain in the king's Light-Horse--and,
though he carried himself with an easy dignity, the general condition of
his dress showed he was one who was neither afraid of nor unfamiliar with
poverty. Now he looked around him with a bright defiance, seemingly
diverted by the havoc his single pair of arms and legs--for he had used
both limbs in the brawl--had wrought among nine swashbucklers, and
apparently prepared at any moment to repeat the performance, if occasion
called for action.
It was curious to observe that, though the new-comer had worked such
confusion among the bravos whom he had taken so roughly unawares, he did
not show any sign of having passed through a scuffle with a number of men
or having accomplished anything especially arduous in bringing them so
swiftly to discomfiture. His breathing was not quickened, his comely
young face was unflushed. As he stood there lightly poised in an easy
attitude that might at any moment be resolved into an attitude of
defence, he seemed, to such of his spectators as had sufficiently
recovered their senses to look at him coolly, rather to resemble one that
had come in on the heels of a tuss and was watching its result with
unconcerned eyes than one that with no more assistance than his own agile
limbs had been the cause of humiliation to so many powerful adversaries.
Staupitz, blinking fiercely as he rubbed his aching head, which had
rattled sharply against the table that arrested his flight across the
room, was too bewildered to swear out the oaths that were frothing within
him when he realized that the earthquake, the whirlwind, the cataclysm
that had tumbled him and his companions about like so many nine-pins was
no other and no more than the slim and pleasant young gentleman who
stood there so composedly. While the bewildered ruffians were picking
themselves up, and with some little difficulty recovering their breath,
the young gentleman addressed them mockingly: "Are there quite enough of
you to manage this adversary?" And as he spoke he pointed to the little
page who was huddled at his feet.
Æsop was the first of the bravos to recover his troubled senses and to
seek to retaliate upon his assailant. He whipped his long rapier from its
sheath, and was making for the intruder when Cocardasse flung his strong
arms around the hunchback and restrained him. "Be easy," he cried; "it is
the little Parisian!" And at the same moment Passepoil, with the gesture
of one who salutes in a fencing-school, exclaimed the name "Lagardere."
As for the other ruffians, they gathered together sulkily enough about
the table, staring at the stranger. His face was familiar to all of them,
and there was not one among them bold enough to follow the example of
Æsop. Lagardere, who had taken no notice of the threatened attack of the
hunchback, surveyed the group, and, glancing from them, addressed himself
to Cocardasse and Passepoil.
"Why, my old masters," he asked, drolling them, "what are you doing in
this desperate adventure? You ought to be careful. The boy might have
hurt you." His eyes turned from the Gascon and the Norman back again to
the fellows at the table. "Some of these scarecrows seem familiar." His
glance rested on Staupitz, and he questioned him: "Where have we met?"