La Boulaye eyed him a second with a glance before which the aristocrat grew pale, and already regretted him of his words. The veins in the Deputy's temples were swollen.
“I warned you,” said he, in a dull voice. Then to the soldiers standing on either side of Ombreval—“Take him out,” he said, “mount him on horseback. Let him ride with his hands pinioned behind his back, and his feet lashed together under the horse's belly. Attend to it!”
“Monsieur,” cried the young man, in an appealing voice, “I will give you my word of honour not to escape. I will—”
“Take him out,” La Boulaye repeated, with a dull bark of contempt. “You had your chance, Citizen-aristocrat.”
Ombreval set his teeth and clenched his hands.
“Canaille!” he snarled, in his fury.
“Hold!” Caron called after the departing men.
They obeyed, and now this wretched Vicomte, of such unstable spirit dropped all his anger again, as suddenly as he had caught it up. Fear paled his cheek and palsied his limbs once more, for La Boulaye's expression was very terrible.
“You know what I said that I would have done to you if you used that word again?” La Boulaye questioned him coldly.
“I—I was beside myself, Monsieur,” the other gasped, in the intensity of his fear. And at the sight of his pitiable condition the anger fell away from La Boulaye, and he smiled scornfully.