“Am I then, my Lord Galmoy, to understand that you refuse to accede to my request? and that the gentleman in whom your Lordship sees I am so deeply interested must die in the morning?”
Galmoy nodded and motioned to the officer who sat nearest him to pass the wine.
“I know not,” De Laprade continued, drawing himself up haughtily, “whether it is because my sword and friendship are of so little value and are held in so slight esteem, that this simple favour is denied me, or because in this country gentlemen are deaf to the voice of expediency. But I know that the brave Luttrel, and a braver man never drew a sword, met his death because you, sir, have seen good to bring in the executioner where the soldier fails.”
“Bah! we will not quarrel, though I will not answer for my temper should you provoke me further. You do not understand these matters, but for my part I hold it a safe rule to let every country manage its own affairs according to its own customs. Damme, man, this is not the court of Versailles, but the country of Whiggery and pestilent traitors, where every Jack-pudding is up in arms against his king and master. In a few months you will have learned not to be so whimsical.”
“I trust that I shall never learn to forget that I am a gentleman.”
De Laprade´s manner was so pointed and his tone so full of fine, studied disdain that Galmoy, who could not fail to see that an insult was intended, leapt to his feet and drew his sword. In an instant his example was followed by the Vicomte. But they were not permitted to fight out their quarrel, for several gentlemen threw themselves between them, and succeeded in disarming them both; not, however, without difficulty in the case of Galmoy, who seemed almost to have been deprived of his reason in the excess of his passion. In vain they endeavoured to assure him that no insult had been intended, and that he had misinterpreted the Vicomte´s words, while the Vicomte himself stood looking on with a smile playing round his lips, cool and unconcerned as was his wont.
In the midst of the confusion Gervase was removed from the room into the open air. His guards permitted him to sit down on the stone drinking-trough outside the door, while one of them went to prepare a place in which he might pass the night securely. Bending down till his forehead touched his knees, he endeavoured vainly to collect his thoughts and to realize what had happened, for his mind was still confused and weak. He knew that he was about to die, but it seemed to him at that moment as if it were another and not himself who had taken part in the drama that had just concluded. For himself, he was drifting blindly among shadows that grew thicker and darker as he sought to dispel them. The voices he had heard were still ringing in his ears; the faces he had seen were still coming and going. Then he heard the voice of Hackett and looked up. The old sergeant was standing beside him with his hands still bound behind his back, and his grey hair hanging, matted and stained with blood, about his face.
“Be of good cheer, Mr. Orme, it will soon be over, sir,” he said, with homely dignity. “I am proud to think that you bore yourself bravely, and showed them that a gentleman and a Christian does not fear death. I should have liked, if it had so pleased the Almighty, to have died on the field of battle, but since ´tis His will, then His will be done. It is not for us to complain or dispute the great decrees. I will see you in the morning, sir,” he added, as his guards prepared to lead him away, “and it may hap that we shall enter the Kingdom together.”
Gervase was conducted to a low outhouse where a quantity of fresh straw had been spread for him, and one of the troopers, with rough goodnature, threw a horse cloth over his shoulders, for the night had grown chilly and he was shivering with cold. Then they withdrew, locking the door behind them, and left him to await the arrival of the provost-marshal in the morning.