"Stay," said St. Georges, "ere you put the gag in his mouth let me ask him one question.—Who," turning to the shivering creature before him, "who was your leader? Answer me that, and even now you shall go free. Answer!"
For a moment the man hesitated—doubtless he was wondering if he could not invent some name which might pass for a real one, and so give him his freedom—then, perhaps because his inventive powers were not great, or—which was more probable—his captor might have some means of knowing that he was lying, he answered:
"I do not know. I never saw him before."
"You do not know, or will not tell—which?"
"I do not know."
"Whence came he to your village? From what quarter?"
"The north road. The great road from Paris. He had not come many leagues; his horse was fresh."
"So! What was he like? He did not wear his burganet all the time—when he ate, for instance."
"He was young," the man replied, hoping, it may be, that by his ready answers he would earn his pardon even yet, "passably young. Of about monsieur's age. With a brown beard cropped close and gray eyes."
"Is that all you can tell?"