“I don’t command here,” said the Chouan, in a surly tone.
His face darkened. She caught his long ears and twisted them gently as if playing with a cat.
“At least,” she said, seeing that he looked less stern, “promise me to use all the power you have to protect our benefactress.”
He shook his head as if he doubted of success, and the motion made her tremble. At this critical moment the escort was entering the courtyard. The tread of the soldiers and the rattle of their weapons awoke the echoes and seemed to put an end to Marche-a-Terre’s indecision.
“Perhaps I can save her,” he said, “if you make her stay in the house. And mind,” he added, “whatever happens, you must stay with her and keep silence; if not, no safety.”
“I promise it,” she replied in terror.
“Very good; then go in—go in at once, and hide your fears from every one, even your mistress.”
“Yes.”
She pressed his hand; he stood for a moment watching her with an almost paternal air as she ran with the lightness of a bird up the portico; then he slipped behind the bushes, like an actor darting behind the scenes as the curtain rises on a tragedy.
“Do you know, Merle,” said Gerard as they reached the chateau, “that this place looks to me like a mousetrap?”