"M. de la Rocheterie is my prisoner, men! He has already given up his sword to me, and he will answer for any mistake that he has made to——"
"No!" broke in Magloire still more incisively, "he is ours! And he will answer to us, Monsieur de Fresne! Take him down to the clearing, gars; we can go into this matter better there."
(9)
They took Aymar down the little slope from the woodcutter's hut. He went unresisting; he was in the snare, the snare of his own devising—he, the Fowler . . . and now he began to be sure that there was only one way out of it, and this wood was to see that way taken.
The clearing was some hundred yards long and thirty wide; the beech trees in all their new glory stood round it, dazzlingly green against the more reluctant oaks. There were windflowers scattered under them like snowflakes, in one place, half seen, a pond of bluebells, and at the farther end a May tree, robed as a bride.
Magloire had preceded the little procession, and was now standing near a large solitary beech at the nearer end of the glade. When they came up he pointed to it in silence.
The Vicomte de la Rocheterie, descendant of Crusaders, flushed deeply. "I give you my word of honour not to stir from this spot," he said in a low voice.
The Chouan shook his head. "You might be tempted," he replied curtly. "And if, later on . . . Hi, Eloi, fetch a rope!"
And Aymar set his teeth hard as his guards, after a second or two's hesitation, pressed him back against the smooth grey trunk, rocklike in its solidity. Even before the rope was brought someone produced a piece of rough cord, not very thick, and, extending his arms behind him part of the way round the great tree, they fastened the cord to either wrist. By that device alone he was effectually a prisoner. The biting shame of it surged over him in a tide of wrath and defiance.
"Guilen—Coatsaliou—Le Merzerr—Gloannec!" he called out suddenly, "are you going to stand by and see this done?"