'Oh, milles demons! one could not be mistaken then?'
'No, M. le Comte—those who once see your visage, will never behold another like it.'
'Especially if they are in your perilous perdicament. You walk stiffly—your spurs drip blood. By St. Nicholas! M. Blane, you have ridden fast from Nanci; but not fast enough to escape me, who left it before you; though six miles further on you would have found Messieurs Hepburn and Lavalette, peppering Zaberne (a bitter reflection certainly) with culverin and caliver. Had your horse wings? But we shall not inquire. My dear M. Blane, I have you here snug enough, and here you shall remain; for unless you write me a little billet to my dictation, I shall hang you like a dog.'
'Hang?' I exclaimed, laying my hand on my sword.
He nodded his head, adding,
'Unless you pen for me a little billet.'
'A billet?'
'Milles demons! yes—I speak plain enough.'
'To whom?'
'Mademoiselle de Lorraine,' said he, in a hoarse whisper.