"This morning, and I warn you that the King will call you to account for every minute's delay."
"You, not me; I did not founder your horse." The half banter passed from his voice, and the bronzed face hardened. "And we have accounts enough as it is, the King and I."
"Pray God he pays his debts and mine, and that I be there to see," retorted Beaufoy, exasperated out of all prudence. "Again, in the King's name I demand your help. I must have a horse. Two of your men can ride double."
"Must this! Demand that! Tut, tut! you forget the reasons behind me." But though he spoke with a return of the banter which goaded the unfortunate Beaufoy almost to madness, his eyes were keenly alert and there was no smile in the mockery. Had Beaufoy been a Philip de Commines he would have known that jest with no laughter at its back is more dangerous than a threat. "Where are you going?"
"That is my affair and the King's."
Lurching forward in the saddle the elder man—he was eight or ten years the senior—shook his clenched gauntlet in Beaufoy's face, his own crimson from the gust of passion which suddenly swept across it. "The King! The King! The King!" he cried furiously. "Curse you and your King! What devil's plot is that lying old tiger-fox scheming now that you ride to death an honester brute than either of you? Whose murder comes next? Or are you from Valmy at all? Give some account of yourself."
"If you are a gentleman, if you are not a coward as well as a bully," answered Beaufoy, his face as white as the other's was flushed, "come down from your horse and meet me man to man. You'll not ask me to give an account of myself a second time."
"That is Valmy all over! Give up my advantage that you may gain! And who are you with your musts and demands?"
"My name is Beaufoy——"
"Then you are not from Valmy," broke in the other, running on Beaufoy's name, "for no faith, beau, bonne, or belle, ever came out of Valmy."