"Fear not," he said, "they will not murder a woman. Can not, at least, murder you while I still live. Remain behind the door while I re-enter the room."
Whereon, leaving her, he pushed open the door and advanced within, his sword in his hand. As he did so he saw he had no chance; believed that he was doomed.
The room was full of men, of the mock soldiers--the Camisards disguised in the uniforms of De Broglie and of Hérault; doubtless they had entered by the main door while he had been in the passage. Also there were lights in it--two flambeaus placed in old sockets in the walls, and white-wax candles in a great lustre on the table.
In front of him was the "nephew of M. de Broglie," his powdered wig off now and his head showing a mass of long fair hair, while in his hand he too held his drawn sword. At the table, his face fallen forward upon it and his arms outstretched, was the old man, the commandant, done to death.
"You craven hound!" hissed Martin, and as he spoke his rapier darted full at the other. "You craven hound, you eat of that old man's dish, drink of his cup, and murder him! Defend yourself, assassin!"
And, forgetful of any wrong that this man's (his own) faith might have suffered at the hands of those of the commandant's creed, remembering only that he was a gentleman face to face with one whom in his heart he deemed the canaille, remembering, too, that he was a murderer, he lunged full at him.
"Malédiction!" the Camisard exclaimed, driven back by the skill of the other (skill acquired in many a cours d'escrime in Paris, and the fence school of the Guards at Kensington gravel-pits), and knowing too, himself, but little of sword play except the rough cut-and-thrust which he had practised in the mountains. "Malédiction! You shall pay dearly for this! Au sécours mes frères."
He called for succour none too soon. In another moment Martin's blade would have been through his breast. None too soon! Fortunately for him it was at hand. Like tigers rushing on their prey, half a dozen of the disguised Camisards hurled themselves upon Martin; two threw themselves on him behind, one knocked up his sword arm, two more secured him. He was disarmed, captured, at their mercy.
"Shall we knock him on the head or cut his throat, brother Cavalier?" one asked, while as he did so Martin knew that he stood before one of the two chiefs of the Cévenoles, a man whose name was a terror by now to all Languedoc, and, two centuries afterward, is still remembered.
"No," Jean Cavalier replied, "he is a bold man, of the tyrants' side though he be. Most of them will be ours now we have risen. We will spare him, for the present at least."