He shook his head; he was still smiling, still unmoved.  “I do not do my own dirty work,” he said quietly, “nor stint my footmen of their sport, boy.”

“Very well!” I retorted.  And with the words I drew my sword, and sprang as quick as lightning to the curtain by which he had entered.  “Very well, we will kill you first!” I cried wrathfully, my eye on his eye, and every savage passion in my breast aroused, “and take our chance with the lackeys afterwards!  Marie!  Croisette!” I cried shrilly, “on him, lads!”

But they did not answer!  They did not move or draw.  For the moment indeed the man was in my power.  My wrist was raised, and I had my point at his breast, I could have run him through by a single thrust.  And I hated him.  Oh, how I hated him!  But he did not stir.  Had he spoken, had he moved so much as an eyelid, or drawn back his foot, or laid his hand on his hilt, I should have killed him there.  But he did not stir and I could not do it.  My hand dropped.  “Cowards!” I cried, glancing bitterly from him to them—­they had never failed me before.  “Cowards!” I muttered, seeming to shrink into myself as I said the word.  And I flung my sword clattering on the floor.

“That is better!” he drawled quite unmoved, as if nothing more than words had passed, as if he had not been in peril at all.  “It was what I was going to ask you to do.  If the other young gentlemen will follow your example, I shall be obliged.  Thank you.  Thank you.”

Croisette, and a minute later Marie, obeyed him to the letter!  I could not understand it.  I folded my arms and gave up the game in despair, and but for very shame I could have put my hands to my face and cried.  He stood in the middle under the lamp, a head taller than the tallest of us; our master.  And we stood round him trapped, beaten, for all the world like children.  Oh, I could have cried!  This was the end of our long ride, our aspirations, our knight-errantry!

“Now perhaps you will listen to me,” he went on smoothly, “and hear what I am going to do.  I shall keep you here, young gentlemen, until you can serve me by carrying to mademoiselle, your cousin, some news of her betrothed.  Oh, I shall not detain you long,” he added with an evil smile.  “You have arrived in Paris at a fortunate moment.  There is going to be a—­well, there is a little scheme on foot appointed for to-night—­singularly lucky you are!—­for removing some objectionable people, some friends of ours perhaps among them, M. Anne.  That is all.  You will hear shots, cries, perhaps screams.  Take no notice.  You will be in no danger.  For M. de Pavannes,” he continued, his voice sinking, “I think that by morning I shall be able to give you a—­a more particular account of him to take to Caylus—­to Mademoiselle, you understand.”

For a moment the mask was off.  His face took a sombre brightness.  He moistened his lips with his tongue as though he saw his vengeance worked out then and there before him, and were gloating over the picture.  The idea that this was so took such a hold upon me that I shrank back, shuddering; reading too in Croisette’s face the same thought—­and a late repentance.  Nay, the malignity of Bezers’ tone, the savage gleam of joy in his eyes appalled me to such an extent that I fancied for a moment I saw in him the devil incarnate!