"I mean, monseigneur, that of late you have not played fair with us. I mean that a sword that can slay as the one you describe is not one to be meddled with by weary men; and I mean that I, Aramon, being captain of these brave fellows now, intend to be my own captain for the future. Is it not so, my wolves?"
There were gruff murmurs of assent, and Simon drew back a space. It was not, however, from fear—Simon of Orrain never suffered from the poltroon fever; he but drew back to strike hard, and to sell his life dearly. They ringed him in—his own men who had turned against him—and he stood with his back to the gate. He did not flinch, and meant to fight, hopeless as it was, for all around him were white, shining swords, that needed but a word from Aramon to be red with his blood. But the new captain did not want this.
"Bah!" he said, "throw down your dagger, monseigneur. We want not your life. For the present you will be the guest of Aramon—that is, until you have paid me, and these gentlemen here, two thousand gold Henris—fat gold Henris—for all our trouble. Come!—throw down the dagger! Put a good face on it!"
CHAPTER XI
THE ROAD TO POITIERS
We reined up on the edge of a shelving bank, and the Mable swirled before us. Beyond the alders on the opposite shore, but about a mile higher upstream, lay Richelieu. Late though it was there were many lights still burning, and now and then a fitful flare, that made the houses stand out redly for a moment, led me to think that the place was occupied by troops or marauders; and if so, the result would in either case be the same for the town, or for ourselves if we ventured thither. It must be remembered that the King's Writ was waste-paper here. All that was ill was loose in the land, and though Montpensier from the north and Montluc from the south struck with heavy hands, the Christaudins—or Huguenots, as they called them—held all the country from the chalks of Châtellerault to Saumur, and from Fontenaye to Thouars and La Mothe St. Héraye.
Craning forward from the saddle I looked in the direction of the town, muttering to myself: "It may be out of the frying-pan into the fire." And as I did so mademoiselle exclaimed:
"Monsieur, why do we stay? That is Richelieu; and they follow us.
Cross, cross!"
I made no answer; but Pierrebon dismounted, and placed his ear to the ground.
"No one follows," he said after a little, rising to his feet; "they have had enough, these accursed bandits." And with this he mounted once more.