“Now put on his mask,” said Louis, “and we can talk till the hell-cat comes. What, you tremble! On my life, your hands are cold. Take this.”
He put a flask of whisky to my mouth and I gulped down a stifling draught. It was well I did so, for my spirit was weak and we were not done with this adventure by more than half. It is a hard thing to strike a man down like that, even to save one’s life. I could not reconcile myself to the shame of having struck him from the back and while he was defenceless. But Louis had saved my life and I did not upbraid him with the way he had chosen to do it.
“Louis,” I said—we were sitting side by side on the coffin. “What does all this mean? Why did you call your master a hell-cat?”
“He gave orders for us to lie in wait and kill you. He thought you were Le Bourse.”
“Thought, or thinks?”
“Thought. He thinks you are the devil now.”
“Wherefore that compliment?”
“Five muskets discharged at short range, one in your very face; none of them brought you down. I had to club you with the butt end of my musket.”
“Strange how they came to miss me.”
“Not strange at all. I unloaded them. Hush, don’t stop to thank me now. They are coming. I hope he will not want to look into the box.”