'Halt, monsieur, and give up your sword,' said a muffled man, whose voice was familiar to me.
'Not to a mere mousquetaire,' said I, unsheathing it, and standing on my guard; 'and least of all to one of your rank, my ex-captain of horse; for now I recognise you, worthy Monsieur de Brissac.'
'Bah! did not Francis I. of France give up his to the son of a butcher?'
'True, when only three of the Scottish Guard remained on their feet beside him, and a mountain of slain lay round them. By St. Andrew—'
'Hark!' said a musketeer; 'a Huguenot swears by St. Andrew.'
'Surrender your sword, Monsieur Arthur Blane, I command you!' reiterated Brissac.
'You have a warrant, I presume?'
'Peste! you are particular!—'
'Most people usually are, under these circumstances.'
'My word and sword should be warrant enough; but here is the document,' said he, holding a paper close lo one of the lamps of the fiacre. 'Louis, par la Grace de Dieu, Roi de France et de Navarre,' &c. &c., 'signed at our castle of Versailles,' and so forth, all in due form. 'What the devil would you have more? I have arrested a Bishop and a Marechal of France—ay, Monseigneur de Montmorenci himself—with infinitely less ceremony.'