[RUIN.]
I started at the man's words, and my rage and despair may be imagined, when I saw that he proposed to bind me, a noble, like any thief! From this I hoped to escape by bringing on death, and, on a sudden, hit the guard next to me on the face, with all my force. Down he went like an ox, and I made a rush to the tent door, little doubting that I should be cut down, and put out of my misery. But they were too quick. I was one, and they were many. In a hand turn I was tripped up, my wrists securely fastened behind my back, and any further resistance on my part impossible. The man whom I felled, scrambled up, and attempted to brain me with the butt of his pike as I went down; but Braccio struck him senseless with the hilt of his sword, and this time he lay in a huddled heap, quiet enough.
I besought Braccio to give me my parole, swearing on the faith of a gentleman, on the honour of a Savelli, that I would not attempt escape, and would go with him quietly, if I were but free from the ignominy of the cords that bound me.
"Shut the cage door, keep your bird," he laughed brutally, "I have to answer for you to-morrow, and I weigh the faith of a gentleman, and the honour--God save the mark--of a Savelli, as that," he snapped his fingers, "when it comes to a consideration of Braccio Fortebraccio's head. So your knighthood must even go as you are, with my love-knots on you. Here, two of you, take charge of this tent, and see after Arnulf there--I never thought his skull so thin--march!"
And in this manner was I led out, two men in front of me, two behind, one on either hand, all with their weapons ready, whilst the provost himself brought up the rear, with his drawn sword in one hand and a lighted torch in the other. Not that light was needed, for the moon had risen, and was in its full. I believe, however, that Braccio held the torch, so that the additional light might the more clearly show who his prisoner was, and I hung down my head as, with quick steps, we marched to the military prison.
"Qui vive là," the challenge rang out crisply, and on the instant the provost replied, "France and Tremouille."
"Pass on," and the sentry, one of Bucicault's arquebusiers, looked at us curiously as we went by. And now, to add to my shame, we met, face to face, a group of late revellers returning to the camp.
"Diable!" called out a gay voice, "our respectable provost is at work I see. What have you got there, Braccio?"
I shuddered, for I recognised Bellegarde, a young noble of the Franche Compte, who had come to seek glory in the Italian war.
"Close up, men--another of my strayed lambs brought back to the fold, Viscompte--pardon me--it is late, and I must hurry on."