‘He can take his gruel,’ said the Bustler.

‘What a glutton he’d have made for the middle-weights,’ remarked the trainer; ‘with six months’ coaching he’d astonish the fancy.  It’s a pity he’s got to go back to prison.’

I did not like that last remark at all.  I buttoned up my coat and rose from the bed.

‘I must ask you to let me continue my journey,’ said I.

‘There’s no help for it, mounseer,’ the trainer answered.  ’It’s a hard thing to send such a man as you back to such a place, but business is business, and there’s a twenty pound reward.  They were here this morning, looking for you, and I expect they’ll be round again.’

His words turned my heart to lead.

‘Surely, you would not betray me!’ I cried.  ’I will send you twice twenty pounds on the day that I set foot upon France.  I swear it upon the honour of a French gentleman.’

But I only got head-shakes for a reply.  I pleaded, I argued, I spoke of the English hospitality and the fellowship of brave men, but I might as well have been addressing the two great wooden clubs which stood balanced upon the floor in front of me.  There was no sign of sympathy upon their bull-faces.

‘Business is business, mounseer,’ the old trainer repeated.  ’Besides, how am I to put the Bustler into the ring on Wednesday if he’s jugged by the beak for aidin’ and abettin’ a prisoner of war?  I’ve got to look after the Bustler, and I take no risks.’

This, then, was the end of all my struggles and strivings.  I was to be led back again like a poor silly sheep who has broken through the hurdles.  They little knew me who could fancy that I should submit to such a fate.  I had heard enough to tell me where the weak point of these two men was, and I showed, as I have often showed before, that Etienne Gerard is never so terrible as when all hope seems to have deserted him.  With a single spring I seized one of the clubs and swung it over the head of the Bustler.

‘Come what may,’ I cried, ‘you shall be spoiled for Wednesday.’

The fellow growled out an oath, and would have sprung at me, but the other flung his arms round him and pinned him to the chair.

‘Not if I know it, Bustler,’ he screamed.  ’None of your games while I am by.  Get away out of this, Frenchy.  We only want to see your back.  Run away, run away, or he’ll get loose!’

It was good advice, I thought, and I ran to the door, but as I came out into the open air my head swam round and I had to lean against the porch to save myself from falling.  Consider all that I had been through, the anxiety of my escape, the long, useless flight in the storm, the day spent amid wet ferns, with only bread for food, the second journey by night, and now the injuries which I had received in attempting to deprive the little man of his clothes.  Was it wonderful that even I should reach the limits of my endurance?