"Eh? Speak it out, man!"
"You cannot be intending to await these English!"
"Name of thunder! What else do you suppose? Pray, my dear Dominique, use your wits. We have to gain time, I tell you—time for our friends below at Montreal."
"With twenty odd men against as many hundreds? Oh, pardon me, Monseigneur, but I cannot bring my mind to understand you."
"But since it gains time—"
"They will not stay to snap up such a mouthful. They will sail past your guns, laughing; unless—great God, Monseigneur! If in truth you intend this folly, where is Mademoiselle Diane? I did not see her in any of the boats from La Galette. Whither have you sent her, and in whose charge?"
"She is yonder on the wall, looking down on us. She will stay; I have given her my promise."
Dominique came to a halt, white as a ghost. His tongue touched his dry lips. "Monseigneur!"—the cry broke from him, and he put out a hand and caught his seigneur by the coat sleeve.
"What is the matter with the man?" The Commandant plucked his arm away and stood back, outraged by this breach of decorum.
But Dominique, having found his voice, continued heedless. "She must go! She shall go! It is a wickedness you are doing—do you hear me, Monseigneur?—a wickedness, a wickedness! But you shall not keep her here; I will not allow it!"