“I hear,” said he, “that there has actually been no war between us of France and you men of England for wellnigh fifty year.  Ours has ever been a nation of warriors.  And besides her regular found men-at-arms, ’tis said the English of the present time have more than a hundred thousand of archers with weapons that will carry for half a mile.  And a multitude have come amongst us of late from a great Western country, never so much as heard of in my time—­valiant men and great drawers of the long bow, and they say they have ships in armor that no shot can penetrate.  Is it so?  Wonderful; wonderful!  The best armor, gossips, is a stout heart.”

“And if ever manly heart beat under shirt-frill, thine is that heart, Sir Eustace!” cried Mr. Sterne, enthusiastically.

“We, of France, were never accused of lack of courage, sir, in so far as I know,” said Messire Eustace.  “We have shown as much in a thousand wars with you English by sea and land; and sometimes we conquered, and sometimes, as is the fortune of war, we were discomfited.  And notably in a great sea-fight which befell off Ushant on the first of June —­ Our Admiral, messire Villaret de Joyeuse, on board his galleon named the ‘Vengeur,’ being sore pressed by an English bombard, rather than yield the crew of his ship to mercy, determined to go down with all on board of her:  and to the cry of Vive la Repub—­or, I would say, of Notre Dame a la Rescousse, he and his crew all sank to an immortal grave—­”

“Sir,” said I, looking with amazement at the old gentleman, “surely, surely, there is some mistake in your statement.  Permit me to observe that the action of the first of June took place five hundred years after your time, and—­”

“Perhaps I am confusing my dates,” said the old gentleman, with a faint blush.  “You say I am mixing up the transactions of my time on earth with the story of my successors?  It may be so.  We take no count of a few centuries more or less in our dwelling by the darkling Stygian river.  Of late, there came amongst us a good knight, Messire de Cambronne, who fought against you English in the country of Flanders, being captain of the guard of my Lord the King of France, in a famous battle where you English would have been utterly routed but for the succor of the Prussian heathen.  This Messire de Cambronne, when bidden to yield by you of England, answered this, ‘The guard dies but never surrenders;’ and fought a long time afterwards, as became a good knight.  In our wars with you of England it may have pleased the Fates to give you the greater success, but on our side, also, there has been no lack of brave deeds performed by brave men.”

“King Edward may have been the victor, sir, as being the strongest, but you are the hero of the siege of Calais!” cried Mr. Sterne.  “Your story is sacred, and your name has been blessed for five hundred years.  Wherever men speak of patriotism and sacrifice, Eustace of Saint Pierre shall be beloved and remembered.  I prostrate myself before the bare feet which stood before King Edward.  What collar of chivalry is to be compared to that glorious order which you wear?  Think, sir, how out of the myriad millions of our race, you, and some few more, stand forth as exemplars of duty and honor.  Fortunati nimium!”