A bumper round, gentlemen. "He must be somewhere hereabouts," cried one of the horsemen, dismounting. On weighing the matter over, he grew so uneasy that he resolved to descend, and inform him of his misgivings. ‘Why did he make me French, Marthe? Why did he give me this name of Melusine, and say I am born of Suzanne Valade?’ Martha looked at her, but her lips remained firmly closed. But the free arm of the stranger hit him a flail-like blow on the chest and sent him sprawling into the yielding sand. I wish they would just get it over with.
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