“What do you want?” he whispered; then, his voice gaining power as he used it—“Speak,” he commanded. “Man or devil, speak!”
I laughed for answer, harshly, mockingly; for never had I known a fiercer, crueller mood. At the sound of that laugh, satanical though may have been its ring, he sprang up again, and unsheathing a dagger he took a step towards me.
“We shall see of what you are made,” he cried. “If you blast me in the act, I'll strike you!”
I laughed again, and raising my arm I gave him the nozzle of a pistol to contemplate.
“Stand where you are, St. Auban, or, by the God above us, I'll send your ghost a-wandering,” quoth I coolly.
My voice, which I take it had nothing ghostly in it, and still more the levelled pistol, which of all implements is the most unghostly, dispelled his dread. The colour crept slowly back to his cheeks, and his mouth closed with a snap of determination.
“Is it, indeed, you, master meddler?” he said. “Peste! I thought you dead these three months.”
“And you are overcome with joy to find that you were in error, eh, Marquis? We Luynes die hard.”
“It seems so, indeed,” he answered with a cool effrontery past crediting in one who but a moment ago had looked so pitiful. “What do you seek at Canaples?”
“Many things, Marquis. You among others.”