Cartouche unbuttoned and slipped off his surtout, hung it over a chair, adjusted the ruffs at his neck and wrists, smoothed a crease from his slim black undercoat, and shifted the bright steel hilt of his sword an inch or two forward—all quite quietly and deliberately. Then he spoke with a very soft courtesy.
“That was the pious course, little Severo. Now shalt thou compromise with thy Maker for no more than a spell of purgatory. It will not be much, I doubt, with one so excusable for his youth.”
His blade came out with a silk-like swish. Death, in the venomous sound, hissed into the youngster’s ears. He looked up, his face as white as paper.
“I seek the river, not thy sword, M. Trix,” he quavered.
“That is unfortunate; because I seek thy life, little Severo.”
The boy looked round fearfully: his companions, set and terrible, hedged him from the door. He gave all up in a pitiful cry,—
“I was wrong: I don’t want to die! Cartouche, I don’t really want to die!”
“That is sad indeed,” said Cartouche. “You will have to summon all your resolution.”
His face changed suddenly.
“Will you draw, sir,” he said sternly: “or am I to cut your throat like a sheep’s?”