“He is no Russian, at least,” replied another, “and has no business to whip an honest man.”
“Take him to the guard,” cried a third; and they fell upon him with violence.
They were common brawlers and ignorant men, and I saw my opportunity to requite the spy’s kindness and save him from a fate that would be inevitable if he fell into the hands of the authorities.
“Stand back!” I exclaimed in a stern voice, stepping in their midst and laying my hand on the Swede; “you will have to account for this brawl. This man belongs to my suite.”
My appearance and manner were sufficient to dash their impudence, but they were sullen and inclined to stand their ground.
“Who are you?” one of the leaders asked boldly; “this fellow has fought an honest man, and ought to go to the provost.”
“I will examine into this matter, sirrah,” I retorted sharply; “it is not for you to argue with your betters.”
“He shall not go,” the knave persisted, holding the Swede, “until I know who you are who dare to take a man from the officers?”
I looked at him with a mocking smile. “Sir justice,” I said, “I am the Vicomte de Brousson, a marshal of France.”
He let go his hold on the Swede and fell back abashed, for he was an ignorant knave and feared some punishment for his audacity; but I was too eager to take advantage of my opportunity to get the Swede safely away to waste words upon him. He muttered an apology, but I cut him short.