“Wounded!” The poor girl was quite upset.

“Oh, do not let that frighten you,” said Phœbus carelessly; “it was nothing. A quarrel— a mere scratch— what does it signify to you?”

“What does it signify to me?” cried Fleur-de-Lys, lifting her beautiful eyes full of tears. “Oh, you cannot mean what you say. What was it all about— I will know.”

“Well, then, my fair one, I had some words with Mahé Fédy— you know— the lieutenant of Saint-Germain- en-Laye, and each of us ripped up a few inches of the other’s skin— that is all.”

The inventive captain knew very well that an affair of honour always sets off a man to advantage in a woman’s eye. And sure enough, Fleur-de-Lys looked up into his fine face with mingled sensations of fear, pleasure, and admiration. However, she did not feel entirely reassured.

“I only hope you are completely cured, my Phœbus!” she said. “I am not acquainted with your Mahé Fédy; but he must be an odious wretch. And what was this quarrel about?”

Here Phœbus, whose imagination was not particularly creative, began to be rather at a loss how to beat a convenient retreat out of his encounter.

“Oh, how should I know?— a mere trifle— a horse— a hasty word! Fair cousin,” said he, by way of changing the conversation, “what is all this going on in the Parvis?” He went to the window. “Look, fair cousin, there is a great crowd in the Place.”

“I do not know,” answered Fleur-de-Lys; “it seems a witch is to do penance this morning before the church on her way to the gallows.”

So entirely did the captain believe the affair of Esmeralda to be terminated, that he took little heed of these words of Fleur-de-Lys. Nevertheless, he asked a careless question or two.

“Who is this witch?”

“I am sure I do not know.”

“And what is she said to have done?”

Again she shrugged her white shoulders.

“I do not know.”

“Oh, by ’r Lord!” exclaimed the mother, “there are so many sorceresses nowadays that they burn them, I dare swear, without knowing their names. As well might you try to know the name of every cloud in heaven. But, after all, we may make ourselves easy; the good God keeps his register above.” Here the venerable lady rose and approached the window. “Lord,” she cried, “you are right, Phœbus, there is indeed a great concourse of the people— some of them even, God save us, on the very roofs! Ah, Phœbus, that brings back to me my young days and the entry of Charles VII, when there were just such crowds— I mind not precisely in what year. When I speak of that to you it doubtless sounds like something very old, but to me it is as fresh as to-day. Oh, it was a far finer crowd than this! Some of them climbed up on to the battlements of the Porte Saint-Antoine. The King had the Queen on the crupper behind him; and after their highnesses came all the ladies mounted behind their lords. I remember, too, there was much laughter because by the side of Amanyon de Garlande, who was very short, there came the Sire Mate-felon, a knight of gigantic stature, who had killed the English in heaps. It was very fine. Then followed a procession of all the nobles of France, with their oriflammes fluttering red before one. There were some with pennons and some with banners— let me think— the Sire de Calan had a pennon,