It was not enough to kill an enemy.  It pleased people to make—­I speak literally—­a football of his head, to throw his heart to the dogs.  And no doubt it had fallen in with the Vidame’s grim humour that the bearer of Pavannes’ first love letter should enter his mistress’s presence, bleeding and plaistered with mud.  And that the riff-raff about our own gates should have part in the insult.

Bezers’ wrath would be little abated by the issue of the affair, or the justice I had done on one of his men.  So we looked well to bolts, and bars, and windows, although the castle is well-nigh impregnable, the smooth rock falling twenty feet at least on every side from the base of the walls.  The gatehouse, Pavannes had shown us, might be blown up with gunpowder indeed, but we prepared to close the iron grating which barred the way half-way up the ramp.  This done, even if the enemy should succeed in forcing an entrance he would only find himself caught in a trap—­ in a steep, narrow way exposed to a fire from the top of the flanking walls, as well as from the front.  We had a couple of culverins, which the Vicomte had got twenty years before, at the time of the battle of St. Quentin.  We fixed one of these at the head of the ramp, and placed the other on the terrace, where by moving it a few paces forward we could train it on Bezers’ house, which thus lay at our mercy.

Not that we really expected an attack.  But we did not know what to expect or what to fear.  We had not ten servants, the Vicomte having taken a score of the sturdiest lackeys and keepers to attend him at Bayonne.  And we felt immensely responsible.  Our main hope was that the Vidame would at once go on to Paris, and postpone his vengeance.  So again and again we cast longing glances at the House of the Wolf hoping that each symptom of bustle heralded his departure.

Consequently it was a shock to me, and a great downfall of hopes, when Gil with a grave face came to me on the terrace and announced that M. le Vidame was at the gate, asking to see Mademoiselle.

“It is out of the question that he should see her,” the old servant added, scratching his head in grave perplexity.

“Most certainly.  I will see him instead,” I answered stoutly.  “Do you leave Francis and another at the gate, Gil.  Marie, keep within sight, lad.  And let Croisette stay with me.”

These preparations made—­and they took up scarcely a moment—­I met the Vidame at the head of the ramp.  “Mademoiselle de Caylus,” I said, bowing, “is, I regret to say, indisposed to-day, Vidame.”

“She will not see me?” he asked, eyeing me very unpleasantly.

“Her indisposition deprives her of the pleasure,” I answered with an effort.  He was certainly a wonderful man, for at sight of him, three-fourths of my courage, and all my importance, oozed out at the heels of my boots.

“She will not see me.  Very well,” he replied, as if I had not spoken.  And the simple words sounded like a sentence of death.  “Then, M. Anne, I have a crow to pick with you.  What compensation do you propose to make for the death of my servant?  A decent, quiet fellow, whom you killed yesterday, poor man, because his enthusiasm for the true faith carried him away a little.”