I glanced at the large press that stood in the corner of the room, and then at him.
“Precisely. You have uncommon intelligence. There is a door behind that, and space to stand.”
“And so you played the spy—well, what is your point?”
His eyes flashed. “I am coming to that. It has been my painful duty to have your friend arrested. There were watchers by my poor mule. I have no horse, but I am an old soldier.”
“Ponthieu has failed then?”
“Ponthieu has failed,” he repeated drily. “Ponthieu is at present in safe hands, and to-morrow Ponthieu will rest in the cachots of Loches—where I have a great mind to send you, Monsieur de Vibrac.”
I flushed hotly, and my hand stole to the hilt of my sword.
“Put back your hand, monsieur; a blow from your sword would only kill a poor priest, but you would be broken on the wheel, and you are not yet ready to die. Even that poor fool, Ponthieu, is better prepared than you, and as for Marcilly—he has a good conscience and sleeps soundly—but you—you cannot sleep.”
“Man! Be careful! There is danger in the air.”
“But not for me, de Vibrac—for you, perhaps, who risk broad lands and an honorable name. A moment ago the cachots yawned for you, but now I have other plans.”