“Not murder, citizen,” I interrupted. “Not that—self-defense.”
“Self-defense!” roared Dubosq. “In the back? Murder, I say! Then shielding himself in that ditch yonder, he worked his way back to the road, mounted your horse and was off, while we were blundering around in that little grove. I should have thought of the ditch;” and he stood glowering at it. “I did—too late! I disgust myself!”
“And I suffer in consequence,” I added. “Come, my friend, confess that you believe my story. Look at me. I am no conspirator—in your heart you know it. If I had been the friend of that fellow, I would have ridden away behind him; certainly I should not have remained here waiting for your return. To revenge yourself on me because your trap has failed—that is unworthy of you. Besides I have suffered enough already—and for no fault.”
He looked at me for a moment, and his face softened. I saw that the storm was over.
“I believe you, citizen,” he said; “you are free,” and he whipped out his knife and cut my bonds.
For thanks I held out my hand and he gripped it warmly.
“Come,” he urged, “join my troop, pin on the tri-color, and I will make a man of you.”
But I shook my head.
“No, my friend,” I said, “an errand of honor calls me to Poitiers.”
He looked at me with renewed suspicion.