“Oh, I do not believe they are very numerous; they must be some poor adventurers, who have nothing to lose and all to gain by pillage.”

“You are right,” said the officer; “I will try to persuade one of them to let me escape.”

And slowly approaching, he accosted a young light-horseman, of about eighteen, who was sitting apart from his comrades upon the parapet.  He had the pink-and-white complexion of a young girl; his delicate hand held an embroidered handkerchief, with which he wiped his forehead and his golden locks He was consulting a large, round watch set with rubies, suspended from his girdle by a knot of ribbons.

The astonished Spaniard paused.  Had he not seen this youth overthrow his soldiers, he would not have believed him capable of anything beyond singing a romance, reclined upon a couch.  But, filled with the suggestion of Ambrosio, he thought that he might have stolen these objects of luxury in the pillage of the apartments of a woman; so, going abruptly up to him, he said: 

“Hombre!  I am an officer; will you restore me to liberty, that I may once more see my country?”

The young Frenchman looked at him with the gentle expression of his age, and, thinking of his own family, he said: 

“Monsieur, I will present you to the Marquis de Coislin, who will, I doubt not, grant your request; is your family of Castile or of Aragon?”

“Your Coislin will ask the permission of somebody else, and will make me wait a year.  I will give you four thousand ducats if you will let me escape.”

That gentle face, those girlish features, became infused with the purple of fury; those blue eyes shot forth lightning; and, exclaiming, “Money to me! away, fool!” the young man gave the Spaniard a ringing box on the ear.  The latter, without hesitating, drew a long poniard from his breast, and, seizing the arm of the Frenchman, thought to plunge it easily into his heart; but, nimble and vigorous, the youth caught him by the right arm, and, lifting it with force above his head, sent it back with the weapon it held upon the head of the Spaniard, who was furious with rage.

“Eh! eh!  Softly, Olivier!” cried his comrades, running from all directions; “there are Spaniards enough on the ground already.”

And they disarmed the hostile officer.

“What shall we do with this lunatic?” said one.

“I should not like to have him for my valet-dechambre,” returned another.

“He deserves to be hanged,” said a third; “but, faith, gentlemen, we don’t know how to hang.  Let us send him to that battalion of Swiss which is now passing across the plain.”

And the calm and sombre Spaniard, enveloping himself anew in his cloak, began the march of his own accord, followed by Ambrosio, to join the battalion, pushed by the shoulders and urged on by five or six of these young madcaps.