If anything, the baron’s big nose and apoplectic temper put me in mind of Squire Cheyney. As he watched the men colliding and dropping their muskets, he jumped up and down in a rage. Though I understood not a word of foreign tongues, it was easy to see that the words issuing from his lips were not flowery compliments.
“I wonder what that language is,” I muttered.
“’Tis French—but the words are not familiar ones,” Sandy unexpectedly replied. “Oh, wait—that I understood.”
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