“One instant, sir,” said Monk, “wait.”

“Long?”

“No; only the time to ask a question.”  Then, turning towards the sailor, “My friend,” asked he, with an emotion which, in spite of all his self-command, he could not conceal, “whose soldiers are these, pray tell me?”

“Whose should they be but that madman, Monk’s?”

“There has been no battle, then?”

“A battle, ah, yes! for what purpose?  Lambert’s army is melting away like snow in April.  All come to Monk, officers and soldiers.  In a week Lambert won’t have fifty men left.”

The fisherman was interrupted by a fresh discharge directed against the house, and by another pistol-shot which replied to the discharge and struck down the most daring of the aggressors.  The rage of soldiers was at its height.  The fire still continued to increase, and a crest of flame and smoke whirled and spread over the roof of the house.  D’Artagnan could no longer contain himself. “Mordioux!” said he to Monk, glancing at him sideways:  “you are a general, and allow your men to burn houses and assassinate people, while you look on and warm your hands at the blaze of the conflagration? Mordioux! you are not a man.”

“Patience, sir, patience!” said Monk, smiling.

“Patience! yes, until that brave gentleman is roasted — is that what you mean?” And D’Artagnan rushed forward.

“Remain where you are, sir,” said Monk, in a tone of command.  And he advanced towards the house, just as an officer had approached it, saying to the besieged:  “The house is burning, you will be roasted within an hour!  There is still time — come, tell us what you know of General Monk, and we will spare your life.  Reply, or by Saint Patrick — "

The besieged made no answer; he was no doubt reloading his pistol.

“A reinforcement is expected,” continued the officer; “in a quarter of an hour there will be a hundred men around your house.”

“I reply to you,” said the Frenchman.  “Let your men be sent away; I will come out freely and repair to the camp alone, or else I will be killed here!”

“Mille tonnerres!” shouted D’Artagnan; “why, that’s the voice of Athos! Ah canailles!” and the sword of D’Artagnan flashed from its sheath.  Monk stopped him and advanced himself, exclaiming, in a sonorous voice:  “Hola! what is going on here?  Digby, whence this fire? why these cries?”

“The general!” cried Digby, letting the point of his sword fall.

“The general!” repeated the soldiers.

“Well, what is there so astonishing in that?” said Monk, in a calm tone.  Then, silence being re-established, — “Now,” said he, “who lit this fire?”

The soldiers hung their heads.

“What! do I ask a question, and nobody answers me?” said Monk.  “What! do I find a fault, and nobody repairs it?  The fire is still burning, I believe.”