“Monsieur! Your sword, in the King’s name.”
“It came from a King, and it goes to a King, monsieur,” and Coqueville obeyed, handing his sword to Richelieu, who received it with a low bow. Then he glanced at me, a secret scorn in his look; but Achon’s voice cut in sharply:
“His, too, monsieur.”
Richelieu shrugged his shoulders, and called to a trooper.
“Truchepot—take monsieur’s sword—my hands are full.”
All eyes were upon me; the contempt in Richelieu’s voice was not to be mistaken. Achon looked on with a mocking smile on his lips.
“Monsieur!” I began; but Condé’s voice stayed me:
“Vibrac! Not a word, I command you—give up your sword.”
I let it fall with a clash on the floor, and as the trooper stooped to recover it, acting on some secret signal two others ranged themselves on each side of me.
“Come, monsieur! Let this farce end. Where are you going to take us?”