ily enough they are perfectly contented and satisfied with themselves, and that is as it should be, but their intolerance is what I cannot bear. Why cannot they live, and let others live, in peace? There they were, all four, like so many fighting-cocks, ready to peck and jump at each other, but by this time I had had enough of it, and observed placidly, "Well, my lambs, I see that it would not be easy to pull the wool from your backs, and I am proud to see you show your good blood, — mine, I mean, — and make yourselves heard, but now be still, all of you, and let me have a chance to talk, for I have something I have been dying to say for the last half hour."
Far from obeying me on the instant, some chance word excited them so that they broke into a perfect storm of rage ; John Francis caught up a chair, Michael drew his long sword, and Anthony a dagger, while Anisse employed his only weapon by bleating, "Murder! Fire!" in a lamentable voice.
Upon my honor I was afraid that they would cut each other's throats, but I seized the first thing that came to my hand (unluckily it was the ewer with the doves, pride of Florimond's heart), and dashed it in fragments on the table. The noise checked the combatants, and at the same moment, Martine ran in with a pot of boiling water and
