Antoine Picard was a giant, much over six feet, and with the limbs and
chest of a piano-mover. He was about sixty, but age evidently had made
no impression upon his strength. John judged from his fair complexion
that he was from Normandy. "Here," young Scott said to himself, "is one
of those devoted European family servants of whom I've heard so often."

He regarded the man with interest, and Picard, in return, measured and
weighed him with a lightning glance.

Lannes laughed.

"It's all right, Antoine," he said. "He's the young man from that far
barbarian country called America, who escaped from Germany with me, only
he's no barbarian, but a highly civilized being who not only likes
France, but who fights for her. John, this is Antoine Picard, who rules
and protects this house."

John held out his hand, American fashion, and it was engulfed in the
mighty grasp of the Norseman, as he always thought of him afterward.

"Madame, your mother, and Mademoiselle, your sister, have been anxious,"
said Picard.

"We were delayed," said Lannes.

They stepped into a narrow hall, and Picard shut the door behind them,
shooting into place a heavy bolt which sank into its socket with a click
like the closing of the entrance to a fortress. In truth, the whole
aspect of the house reminded John of a stronghold. The narrow hall was