“Sir, at the time I left him, he was proposing to enter into an agreement to draw up, himself, the inventory demanded, and send it directly to the marshal.”
“Laramée,” said the baron, rising abruptly from the table, “have Mistraon saddled, mount five or six of my men and arm them well, and get ready yourself to follow me.”
“In the name of Heaven, father, what are you going to do?” cried Reine, taking one of the baron’s hands in her own.
“Prevent that good man, Saint-Yves, committing a cowardice which would dishonour the nobility of Provence. He is old and feeble, and he has not many persons around him; he will suffer himself to be intimidated. Laramée, my arms, and to horse, to horse!”
“This black night, over such bad roads—surely you will not dream of it,” said Honorât, taking the other hand of the baron.
“Did you hear me, Laramée!” shouted Raimond V.
“But, sir,—” said Honorât.
“Eh, Manjour, my young master, I do what you ought to have done! At your age, I would have thrown the recorder and his guards out of the window. God’s death! the blood of your fathers does not run in the veins of you young men! Laramée, my arms, and to horse!”
Honorât made no response to the baron’s reproaches. He looked at Reine and shook his head to make her understand her father’s injustice to his conduct.
The young girl understood the situation, and while Laramée was occupied in taking down his master’s arms from one of the panoplies which ornamented the dining-hall, she said: