Everyone regarded him with astonishment.
"Messieurs," said Réginard. "I must tell you a remarkable story, should my amour-propre suffer therefrom. I believed myself the object of affection of the descendant of a Finwe or a Legolà, while I was tout purement et simplement the object of the amusements of a Contadina, and I say Contadina to avoid saying dragon-lady, and that's ... that's the truth, if you follow me. Eh bien, I was even more a ninnihammier than Thingolaud was when he decided to essay a dwarvish liqueur, for I was about to get into a highly compromising situation with said dragon-lady, when she took to the air and, faster than the inebriation of absinthe, brought me to a terrible orc-hole, where I found the chief of the bandits highly lettered, ma foi: he was reading Elrond's De bello orcico, and deigned to interrupt his reading to tell me that, if he didn't have four thousand certar in hand by tomorrow, I would be as dead as an Aftian horse. I was at a désespoir like a frost on Barastille Day. The letter exists, it is in the hands of Arafrantz, who will confirm everything. Voilà what I know. What I do not know, monsieur le comte, is how you succeeded to strike the bandits, who honour so few things, with so great a respect."
