Yeux-gris turned to him with that little hauteur he assumed occasionally.
"You are helpless, my cousin. You have passed your word."
"Aye. I leave him to you."
His sullen eyes told me it was no new-born tenderness for me that prompted his surrender. Nor had I, truth to tell, any great faith in the sacredness of his word. Yet I believed he would let me be. For it was borne in upon me that, despite his passion and temper, he had no wish to quarrel with Yeux-gris. Whether at bottom he loved him or in some way dreaded him, I could not tell; but of this my fear-sharpened wits were sure: he had no desire to press an open breach. He was honestly ashamed of his henchman's low deed; yet even before that his judgment had disliked the quarrel. Else why had he struck me with the hilt of the sword?
"I leave him to you," he repeated. "Do as you choose. If you deem his life a precious thing, cherish it. When did you learn a taste for insolence, Étienne? Time was when you were touchy on that score."
"Time never was when I did not love courage."
"Oh, it is courage!" With a sneer he turned away.
"Gervais," said Yeux-gris, "have the kindness to unlock the door."
Gervais wheeled around, his face an angry question.
Yeux-gris answered it with cold politeness: