“And now, General Santerre,” said Denot, marching close up to him, “are you prepared to make good your promise to me?  Are you prepared to give me an escort for myself and this lady, and to allow us to commence our journey from hence to Saumur?”

Denot’s personal appearance had not been at all improved by the blow which Arthur had given him across his face.  Both his cheeks were much swollen immediately beneath the eyes, and one of them was severely cut.  He felt that his looks were against him, and he endeavoured to make up for the injury his countenance had sustained by the sternness of his voice, and the determined rigour of his eye.  “I presume,” General Santerre,” added he, “that your plighted word is sufficient warrant to me for your good faith.”

“There is the lady,” said Santerre, pointing to Agatha.  “I did not undertake to protect you from the wrath of any rivals you might have in her affections.  It seems to me that at present she prefers that young dare-devil slip of aristocracy to your patriotic ardour.  If she won’t go to Saumur with you, I can’t make her.”

“By all the powers of heaven and hell, she shall go with me!” said Denot, advancing towards her.

“Beware the switch—­beware the switch again, thou false knave!” said the little Chevalier, jumping up, and standing immediately before Agatha, with his cherry stick in his hand.  Denot had no other arms about him but his dagger, and that he drew, as he advanced towards the boy.

“No daggers—­I will have no daggers,” shouted Santerre.  “Sergeant, take the dagger from him, unless he puts it up.”

“Beware the switch, thou traitor! beware the switch, thou knave!” continued the Chevalier, shaking the stick at Denot, upon whose arm the strong hand of the sergeant, who had returned to the room, was now laid heavily.

“I will choke the brat as I would an adder,” said Denot, attempting to shake off the sergeant’s hand.  “There, take the dagger,” and he dropped it on the ground, and rushing at the boy, got inside the swing of his stick, and made a grasp at his throat.  Arthur, however, was too quick for him, and pushing away his hand, fastened his own arms round his adversary.  They were now close locked in each other’s embrace, and kicking, plunging, and striving, each did his best to throw the other to the ground.

“Oh!  Sir, kind Sir, for mercy’s sake separate them!” said Agatha, appealing to Santerre; “he is but a boy, a child, and that wretched man is mad.  He’ll murder the boy before your eyes, if you do not separate them.”

“He won’t find it so easy though,” said the Chevalier, panting, and out of breath; but still holding his own, and, indeed, more than his own; for he had fixed his left hand in Denot’s hair, and was pulling his head backwards with such force, that he nearly broke his neck.

“I think the young one has the best of it,” said Santerre; “but come, citizen Denot, your loves and your quarrels are troublesome to us; we have other work to attend to.  Get up, man, get up, I tell you.”