He sat down heavily upon a chair.
“Very well,” he said. “I am he. But that does not explain this cursed uproar.”
My hat was off and I was on my knee before him in an instant. Perhaps here I should get justice. The door was already splitting. I had need to speak quickly.
“M. le Comte,” I cried, “believe me, I am your faithful and devoted servant. I have journeyed fifty leagues to bring you a message of great moment to your house. Yet, when I came here and asked to see you that I might give you this message, I was called a spy, set upon, and threatened with the gibbet.”
“But why—why?” he asked.
“I do not know, Monsieur,” I answered.
He looked me for an instant in the eyes.
“M. de Marsan,” he said, “I believe you. Get behind my chair. I will protect you from these fools.”
It was time. Even as he spoke there came a mighty crash against the door, as of a heavy log hurled upon it, and it leaped from its hinges. The mob poured into the room, headed by d’Aurilly and Letourge. For an instant, in the semi-darkness, they did not see me standing there behind their master, then they were upon me with a yell of rage.
But M. le Comte was out of his chair, his sword advanced.