They dragged me from him at last—those lapdogs that attended him—and with much rough handling they sent me sprawling among the sawdust on the floor. It is more than likely that but for Castelroux's intervention they had made short work of me there and then.
But with a bunch of Mordieus, Sangdieus, and Po' Cap de Dieus, the little Gascon flung himself before my prostrate figure, and bade them in the King's name, and at their peril, to stand back.
Chatellerault, sorely shaken, his face purple, and with blood streaming from his nostrils, had sunk into a chair. He rose now, and his first words were incoherent, raging gasps.
“What is your name, sir?” he bellowed at last, addressing the Captain.
“Amedee de Mironsac de Castelroux, of Chateau Rouge in Gascony,” answered my captor, with a grand manner and a flourish, and added, “Your servant.”
“What authority have you to allow your prisoners this degree of freedom?”
“I do not need authority, monsieur,” replied the Gascon.
“Do you not?” blazed the Count. “We shall see. Wait until I am in Toulouse, my malapert friend.”
Castelroux drew himself up, straight as a rapier, his face slightly flushed and his glance angry, yet he had the presence of mind to restrain himself, partly at least.
“I have my orders from the Keeper of the Seals, to effect the apprehension of Monsieur de Lesperon; and to deliver him up, alive or dead, at Toulouse. So that I do this, the manner of it is my own affair, and who presumes to criticize my methods censoriously impugns my honour and affronts me. And who affronts me, monsieur, be he whosoever he may be, renders me satisfaction. I beg that you will bear that circumstance in mind.”