“Ah, seigneur,” he cried, espying De Brésac. “Welcome to France!” And rushing to the Chevalier he embraced him as a brother.
“Mon ami, you are new-come from Mont-de-Marsan?”
“This very hour, mon brave, and I have ridden directly to you.”
Whereupon the Chevalier presented me to him, explaining that I was the Killigrew who had been at San Augustin.
“Good!” he said abruptly. “Monsieur, I am indeed fortunate. It is upon this very business that I am come to you.” With an abrupt gesture he threw his cloak aside and seated himself. Then without ado, he began to speak.
“The King of France is a sluggard and a coward,” he said fiercely. “He has bowed the head of every honorable man in France upon the breast in shame. I, who have been upon the soil of many countries, have ever held my head aloft in pride; for I am a Frenchman. That heritage holds enough honor to place me among the ranks of the chosen of the earth. Our nation is a brave nation and in our land a man of honor dies rather than suffer a stain to fall upon his name. The glory of our deeds has resounded from one end of the world to the other, and the lustre of our achievements has been like the gleam of a shining blade in the fore of battle.”
He paused and then continued slowly, “M. le Chevalier, that pride is gone; that heritage of a good name,—an empty sound; that lustrous escutcheon,—beaten to the earth, and dimmed and blotted by the blood of our own kindred which has flowed upon it.”
“God knows it is so,” said De Brésac.
“You of England,” he continued, appealing to me, “know well that no insult such as this could rest against the fair fame of your Queen, monsieur,” and he rose from his seat. “Unless something is done we are a people dishonored upon the face of the earth.”
“The King has promised the degradation of this Menendez,” said the Chevalier.