He addressed me then in French, which was between us the language of more formal moments.
"Prenez mon bras, monsieur. Take a firm hold, or I will have you stumbling again and falling into one of those beastly holes, with a good chance to crack your head. And there is no need to take offence. For, speaking with all respect, why should you, and I with you, be here on this lonely spot, barking our shins in the dark on the way to a confounded flickering light where there will be no other supper but a piece of a stale sausage and a draught of leathery wine out of a stinking skin. Pah!"
I had good hold of his arm. Suddenly he dropped the formal French and pronounced in his inflexible voice:
"For a pair of white arms, Señor. Bueno."
He could understand.
