“ Sacrée tête dure,” he muttered without rousing himself. Peyrol was annoyed a little at not having been recognized. He could not conceive how difficult it would have been for Symons to identify this portly deliberate person with a white head of hair as the object of his youthful admiration, the black-ringletted French Brother in the prime of life of whom everybody thought so much. Peyrol was roused by hearing the other declare suddenly:
“ I am an Englishman, I am. I am not going to knuckle under to anybody. What are you going to do with me?”
“ I will do what I please,” said Peyrol, who had been asking himself exactly the same question.
“ Well, then, be quick about it, whatever it is. I don’t care a damn what you do, but—be—quick—about it.”
He tried to be emphatic; but as a mat
