"How do you think I can get out like that?" cried he, trying to climb.
"Before coming out there is a little ceremony to be observed, master," said the porters, in a jeering tone.
"A ceremony, what is it, my boys?"
"It is to give us all the silver and gold that you have about you. We'll relieve you of that."
"What is that you say? Scoundrels! Rascals!"
"Come, do as we bid you and no noise, or that will be worse for you."
As they gave this order, they flashed the blades of their swords before Chaudoreille's eyes, and he fell back in the bottom of the chair, unable to support himself. The two porters were obliged to draw him from the chair themselves. He glanced around him, but he was in a lonely, narrow road, surrounded by marshes, where nobody would venture so late. The robbers searched him, and despoiled him of all that he possessed, then they escaped with their sedan chair, leaving him lying beside a huge stone, half dead with fright.