“What’s all this? How dare you, sir?”
This to the General, who now had the man by the throat with one hand and with the other was preventing him from drawing his sword. “Desist—forbear! You are opposing legal authority; desist, or I will call in assistance and will have you secured and removed.”
The little Chief’s blood was up; he spoke warmly, with all the force and dignity of an official who sees the law outraged.
“It is entirely the fault of this ruffian of yours; he has behaved most brutally,” replied Sir Charles, still holding him tight.
“Let him go, monsieur; your behaviour is inexcusable. What! you, a military officer of the highest rank, to assault a sentinel! For shame! This is unworthy of you!”
“He deserves to be scragged, the beast!” went on the General, as with one sharp turn of the wrist he threw the guard off, and sent him flying nearly across the room, where, being free at last, the Frenchman drew his sword and brandished it threateningly—from a distance.
But M. Floçon interposed with uplifted hand and insisted upon an explanation.
“It is just this,” replied Sir Charles, speaking fast and with much fierceness: “that lady there—poor thing, she is ill, you can see that for yourself, suffering, overwrought; she asked for a glass of water, and this brute, triple brute, as you say in French, refused to bring it.”
“I could not leave the room,” protested the guard. “My orders were precise.”
“So I was going to fetch the water,” went on the General angrily, eying the guard as though he would like to make another grab at him, “and this fellow interfered.”