"I feel this action almost as if it had been my own son, had God blessed me with one," said the old Marquis, slowly recovering his self-command. "A loyal Marteau, a thief, a despoiler of women! Why, she knelt to you in the hall. She raised her voice in your defense, and now you—you——" His fingers twitched. "'The Count d'Aumenier,'" he added in bittery mockery. "You could not bear the title if it had been left in your hand. I shall have you branded as a thief in the morning and——"
"My uncle," said the woman, "he——"
"Mademoiselle," interposed Marteau sharply, resolved to protect her at all hazards, "is not my case black enough without further testimony from you? I beseech you to be silent."
"Speak, Laure," said the old Marquis. "If you have anything to say which will make his punishment surer and harder, I charge you to say it."
"Nothing, nothing," answered the poor young woman. "Oh, if ever a woman's soul was tortured——"
"You tortured her, did you?" cried the Englishman, struggling in his father's arms. "I once thought of meeting you in the field—you—you! I would like to strangle you with my bare hands."
"It is just. I honor monsieur for his rage. It is true, I love the woman, and——"
"Is this the way a gentleman shows his affection?" roared out the English captain.
"Monsieur forgets that I am almost, not quite, a gentleman."
"And there is another score we have to settle with you," cried the Marquis. "That cursed Eagle—where is it?"