"Were it ten times true, you have no right to say it."
"No, I have none," I answered, shamed. I might not speak ill of a St. Quentin, though he were the devil's own. But my rage came uppermost again.
"I can bring Monsieur to the house in twenty minutes. Vigo and a handful of men can take them prisoners before they suspect aught amiss. They are only three—he and Grammont and the lackey."
But Monsieur shook his head.
"I cannot do that."
"Why not, Monsieur?"
"Can I take my own son prisoner?"
"Monsieur need not go," said I, wondering. In his place I would have gone and killed Yeux-gris with my own hands. "Vigo and I and two more can do it. Vigo and I alone, if Monsieur would not shame him before the men." I guessed at what he was thinking.
"Not even you and Vigo," he answered. "Think you I would arrest my son like a common felon—shame him like that?"
"He has shamed himself!" I cried. I cared not whether I had a right to say it. "He has forgotten his honour."