The unknown looked at him for a moment longer with his faint smile, and retiring from the window, came out of the hostelry with a slow step, and placed himself before the horse within two paces of D’Artagnan.

“This horse is decidedly, or rather has been in his youth, a buttercup,” resumed the unknown, continuing the remarks he had begun, and addressing himself to his auditors at the window, without seeming in any way to notice the exasperation of D’Artagnan, who, however, remained stiffly standing between them. “It is a colour very well known in botany, but till the present time very rare among horses.”

He had scarcely finished when D’Artagnan made such a furious lunge at him that if he had not sprung nimbly backward it is possible that he would have jested for the last time. The unknown then, perceiving that the matter was going beyond a joke, drew his sword, saluted his adversary, and gravely placed himself on guard. But at the same moment his two auditors, accompanied by the host, fell upon D’Artagnan with sticks, shovels, and tongs. This caused so rapid and complete a diversion to the attack that D’Artagnan’s adversary, while the latter was turning round to face this shower of blows, sheathed his sword with the same precision as before, and from an actor, which he had nearly been, became a spectator of the fight, a rôle in which he acquitted himself with his usual impassibility, muttering, nevertheless,

“A plague upon these Gascons! Put him on his yellow horse again and let him begone!”

“Not before I have killed you, poltroon!” cried D’Artagnan, showing the best front possible, and never falling back one step before his three assailants, who continued to shower their blows upon him.

“Another gasconade!” murmured the gentleman. “By my honour, these Gascons are incorrigible! Keep up the dance, then, since he will have it so. When he is tired, he will say that he has enough of it.”

But the unknown did not yet know the headstrong personage he had to deal with; D’Artagnan was not the man ever to cry for quarter. The fight was therefore prolonged for some seconds; but at length D’Artagnan, worn out, let fall his sword, which was struck from his hand by the blow of a stick and broken in two pieces. Another blow full upon his forehead at the same moment brought him to the ground, covered with blood and almost fainting.

It was at this period that people came flocking to the scene of action from all sides. The host, fearful of consequences, with the help of his servants carried the wounded man into the kitchen, where some trifling attention was bestowed upon him.

As to the gentleman, he resumed his place at the window, and surveyed all that crowd with a certain air of impatience, evidently much annoyed by their persistence in remaining there.

“Well, how is it with this madman?” exclaimed he, turning round as the opening door announced the entrance of the host, who came to inquire whether he was hurt.

“Your excellency is safe and sound?” asked the host.

“Oh yes! perfectly safe and sound, my good host; and I now wish to know what has become of our young man.”

“He is better,” said the host; “he fainted quite away.”

“Indeed!” said the gentleman.

“But before he fainted he collected all his strength to challenge you, and to defy you while challenging you.”

“Why, this fellow must be the devil in person!” cried the unknown.