The latter had a wavy, yellow beard,
a feminine manner, and a dandified air, as if he might once have been a
fop at the court before descending to the rags which now covered him. The
fat hireling had a face on which both good nature and pugnacity were
depicted. At present he was puffing from his exertions afoot. The most
striking figure of the group was that of the tall rascal. He was gaunt,
angular and erect, throwing out his chest, and wearing a solemn and
meditative mien upon his weather-beaten face. This visage, long enough in
its frame-work, was further extended by a great, pointed beard. There was
something of grandeur about this cadaverous, frowning, Spanish-looking
wreck of a warrior, as he stood thoughtfully leaning upon a huge
two-handed sword, which he had doubtless obtained in the pillage of some
old armory.
"The place seems closed as tight as the gates of Heaven to a heretic,"
growled Barbemouche, scrutinizing the inn.
The tall fellow here awoke from his reverie, and spoke in solemn,
deliberate tones:
"Would it not be well to wake up the landlord and try his wine?"
"Wake up the devil!" cried Barbemouche angrily. "Nobody is to be waked
up. We are simply to find out whether they are here, and then go back to
the Captain. Your unquenchable thirst will take you to hell before your
time, Francois."
"It is astonishing," put in the fat fellow, looking at the tall, lean
Francois, "how so few gallons of body can hold so many gallons of wine.
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