“Afraid!” said the Breton; “who are you, over there, who thinks I am afraid?”
“Some one who probably does not know what fear is, my dear Branche-d’Or,” said Morgan, who recognized in Cadoudal’s messenger the same man whom they had received at the Chartreuse the night he himself arrived from Avignon. “I ask pardon on his behalf.”
Branche-d’Or looked at the young men before him with an air that left no doubt of his repugnance for a certain sort of pleasantry; but as the group had evidently no offensive intention, their gayety having no insolence about it, he said, with a tolerably gracious air: “Which of you gentlemen is captain? I have a letter for him from my captain.”
Morgan advanced a step and said: “I am.”
“Your name?”
“I have two.”
“Your fighting name?”
“Morgan.”
“Yes, that’s the one the general told me; besides, I recognize you. You gave me a bag containing sixty thousand francs the night I saw the monks. The letter is for you then.”
“Give it to me.”