I bent it to left and right. It gave in my hands like some living thing.
“’Twill take a stout coat of mail to turn it aside,” he said. “’Tis a Toledo.”
I flushed with joy at possessing such a treasure and tried to stammer my thanks, but he cut me off.
“There, there,” he said, not unkindly. “Keep your thanks. I doubt you will soon find you have little enough cause for gratitude. But ’tis the utmost I can do for you, for ’tis very unlike we shall ever meet again.”
“But your name,” I stammered. “Surely I may know your name.”
He hesitated a moment, then shook his head impatiently, as though casting some weakness from him.
“My name is of small moment,” he said. “You may call me Duval. That will serve as well as any other.”
“But, Monsieur,” I protested, “I hope to see you many times again—you and Mademoiselle,” and I stole a glance at her, but her eyes were fixed on the floor.
Duval came to me and took my hand.
“Believe me, M. de Marsan,” he said earnestly, “I honor you and value your friendship highly, but for your own sake you must not meet us again. Indeed, ’twill do you little good to try, since by to-morrow we shall be far from here, in a country it were death for you to penetrate.”