“Oh, Sir, protect me from him!” said Agatha, still appealing to Santerre. “He is mad—you see and hear he is mad! I have not asked you for my life, nor do I so now; but I pray you, I beseech you, by the remembrance of the females who are dear to yourself save me from the power of that frantic man. Had he not been mad, had he not utterly lost his senses, he would have been the last to have brought you hither.”
“I have thought something like that myself pretty one,” said Santerre. “Come, Denot, you shall talk to the lady tomorrow; we will leave her with her father tonight.” “Your word, General!” said Denot, assuming his furious look, “your plighted word and honour. Was she not to be my prize, my captive, my reward. You dare not go back from the promise you have made me.”
“Nonsense, man alive,” said Santerre. “You can’t carry her off tonight. I believe in my heart she’s right, and that you’re as mad a man as ever roared in a hospital. Let go her arm, I tell you; you shall not drag her about in that way.”
The Marquis, during this scene, was endeavouring to throw his arms round his daughter, so as to protect her; but his efforts were but of little avail. Agatha herself still held to her father by one hand, but the other she was unable to extricate from her persecutor’s grasp. She did not scream or cry, for there was something within her—a memory of Cathelineau’s last moments, of her brother’s gallantry, and her father’s loyalty, which strongly urged her to repress her tears before a republican; but her strength was almost gone, her nerves were all but over strung, when she heard a sudden noise behind her of some one rushing into the room, and Adolphe Denot quickly dropped her hand, and gave a yell of pain. He had received a sharp blow of a cherry switch across his face, and the blood was running from both his cheeks.
Santerre, and the other republican officers in the room, put their hands to their pistols, and prepared to defend themselves, but the only person who appeared was a young boy: to be sure he had the dreadful red scarf round his waist; but he had no weapon but his cherry stick, after having given Denot the blow across his face, he made no farther use of that. It was the little Chevalier who had arrived so opportunely; he took Agatha’s hand in his, and pressed it closely, and took his place beside her without speaking a word.
“And who the deuce is this young bantam cock?” said Santerre.
“I am the little Chevalier Mondyon,” said Arthur; “a true royalist, and sworn knight to Agatha Larochejaquelin. And that man there is a traitor and a false knave; he is not fit to be punished with a sword like a gentleman.”
“Well crowed, my bantam,” said Santerre; “and be good enough to tell me where you come from. No, friend Denot, no, we’ll have no dagger work just at present.” And putting his huge hand on the other’s shoulder, he dragged him back as he was about to plunge his knife into the little Chevalier.
“I came from the cherry wood there,” said Arthur. “Maybe you think I ought not to have run away, and deserted my lady love. Maybe I’m rather ashamed of my own self, but at any rate when you speak of it, say that I came back of my own accord. I’m not a bit afraid to die now,” and as he spoke he squeezed Agatha’s hand. His heart was full of apprehension, lest she should suspect for a moment that he had really fled from her through fear, but Agatha understood well his ready wit, and appreciated his more than boyish courage.
Santerre now made his arrangements for the night. All the inhabitants of the château were kept under strict surveillance. The Marquis, his daughter, and the Chevalier were allowed to remain together, and Denot was prevented from annoying them. At day-break the following morning Durbellière was to be burnt, and Santerre, with his prisoners, would then proceed to join Westerman at Bressuire.