Cadoudal drew a pistol from his holster and cocked it. Roland, sabre in hand, was charging, crouched on his horse’s neck. When they were twenty paces apart, Cadoudal slowly raised his hand in Roland’s direction. At ten paces he fired.
The horse Roland was riding had a white star on its forehead. The ball struck the centre of that star, and the horse, mortally wounded, rolled over with its rider at Cadoudal’s feet.
Cadoudal put spurs to his own horse and jumped both horse and rider.
Branche-d’Or and his men were ready. They sprang, like a pack of jaguars, upon Roland, entangled under the body of his horse. The young man dropped his sword and tried to seize his pistols, but before he could lay hand upon the holsters two men had him by the arms, while the four others dragged his horse from between his legs. The thing was done with such unanimity that it was easy to see the manoeuvre had been planned.
Roland roared with rage. Branche-d’Or came up to him and put his hat in his hand.
“I do not surrender!” shouted Roland.
“Useless to do so, Monsieur de Montrevel,” replied Branche-d’Or with the utmost politeness.
“What do you mean?” demanded Roland, exhausting his strength in a struggle as desperate as it was useless.
“Because you are captured, sir.”
It was so true that there could be no answer.