Something in his pose, half
rustic, half braggart, seemed familiar to Gaspard. The next second the two
were in each other's arms.
"Gawain Champernoun!" cried Gaspard. "When I left you by the Isle of Pines
I never hoped to meet you again in a Paris inn? What's your errand, man, in
this den of thieves?"
"Business of state," the Englishman laughed. "I have been with Walsingham,
her Majesty's Ambassador, and looked to start home to-night. But your city
is marvellous unwilling to part with her guests. What's toward, Gaspard?"
"For me, supper," and he fell with zest to the broiled fowl he had ordered.
The other sent for another flask of the wine of Anjou, observing that he
had a plaguy thirst.
"I think," said Gaspard, at last raising his eyes from his food, "that
Paris will be unwholesome to-night for decent folk."
"There's a murrain of friars about," said Champernoun, leisurely picking
his teeth.
"The place hums like a bee-hive before swarming. Better get back to your
Ambassador, Gawain.
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