"This, Louis de Montemar, is your post," cried the Sieur, closing the door and bolting it. "Here you must labour for Spain and your own destiny; and here," added he, in a decisive voice; "you must take an oath of inviolable secrecy, that neither bribery of wealth, honours, nor beauty; nor threats of ruin, torments, nor of death; shall ever induce you to betray what may be confided to you in this chamber."
Appalled at this demand, Louis did not answer. The Sieur examined his changing countenance.
"You cannot hesitate to give me this pledge of honour!"
"Honour does not need such a pledge," replied Louis, turning on him the assured look of conscious worth; "trust me, and you shall find, that in no case where honour enjoins silence, death itself can compel me to speak."
Ignatius shook his head.—
"This will not do, in an affair like the present. When the interests of millions may hang upon a yea or nay; he, who has it in his power to pronounce either, must be bound on the perdition of his soul to utter that only which ensures the general safety."
He paused for an answer. But Louis remaining silent, as if still unconvinced, his stern monitor resumed with augmented asperity.
"I do not like this mincing nicety. It savours more of effeminate dreaming, than of manly intention to observe and to act. At a word, take the oath I proffer you; or, prepare to set out this night on your return to England; and to the absurd people who have taught you to pant for glory, and to start from its shadow." The Sieur turned haughtily away.—The reasoning faculties of his pupil became confused. Was he doing right or wrong in resisting this demand? It called on him to stake his salvation on the preservation of secrets, of the nature of which he was entirely ignorant. It seemed to him more than just, that a stranger, however sanctioned, should, at so early a stage of acquaintance, expect that perfect reliance on his virtue, as would warrant a man in so awful a venture as that of vowing to adopt all that stranger might propose. But the authority with which he pronounced the sentence which should follow persisted refusal, struck Louis with astonishment. Who was he, that durst so fearlessly take on himself the responsibility of banishing, without appeal, and with disgrace, the son of the Baron de Ripperda? As Louis looked up, with something of this question in his eyes, he met the searching glance of Ignatius. "Young man," said he, "you think your honour insulted, by the mention of an oath. Your honour, which is yet untried! Which has passed through no ordeal, but those presented by phantastic imagination! What must the Baron de Ripperda think, when he hears of a son who so insults his father's approved honour, as to doubt whether he ought to pledge his faith on that father's virtue? And, after all," added he, "what more is demanded of you, than the surety that is offered every hour by the rest of mankind, on the slightest requisition, and on the commonest occasions?"
"What is slightly assumed," returned Louis, "would be as slightly relinquished. And I trust that my father will not condemn, and that his friend will not continue to misjudge, a hesitation which springs from the inexpressible awe in which I hold the nature of an oath. By that most solemn of appeals, I have never yet called upon the presence of my Creator; and therefore I tremble to do it now. But," added he, "as it is the will of my father; who, through your agency, demands it of me; on the probity of his soul, I commit mine, and am ready to swear."
"Then," cried the Sieur, "subscribe that paper with your name."