Passepoil was now a sickly green. "A very painful humor," he stammered.
There was an awkward pause, and then Cocardasse suddenly spoke in a decisive tone. "Captain, you have no right to kill us," he growled, and Passepoil, nodding his long head, repeated his companion’s phrase with Norman emphasis.
Lagardere looked from one to the other of the pair, and there was a twinkle in his eyes that reassured them. "Are you scared, old knaves? No explanations; let me speak. That night in Caylus, seventeen years ago, when the darkness quivered with swords, I did not meet your blades."
Cocardasse explained. "When you backed Nevers we took no part in the scuffle."
"Nor did we join in hunting you later," Passepoil added, hurriedly.
Lagardere’s face wore a look of satisfaction. "In all the tumult of that tragic night I thought I saw two figures standing apart—thought they might be, must be, my old friends. That is why I have sent for you."
"Sent for us?" Cocardasse echoed in astonishment.
"Was it you who—" Passepoil questioned, equally surprised.
"Why, of course it was," Lagardere answered. "Sit down and listen."
He led the way to the very table at which, such a short time before, Æsop had sat with Peyrolles. Now he and Cocardasse and Passepoil seated themselves, the two bravos side by side and still seemingly not a little perturbed, Lagardere opposite to them and studying them closely, resting his chin upon his hands.