If so the rider’s bold front and unmoved demeanour gave them pause. Presently, “I will send for the Grand Master” the man who had spoken before announced. “In whose name, monsieur?”
“No matter,” the stranger answered. “Say, one from the King.”
“You are alone?”
“I shall enter alone.”
The assurance seemed to be satisfactory, for the man answered “Good!” and after a brief delay a wicket in the gate was opened, the portcullis creaked upward, and a plank was thrust across the ditch. The horseman waited until the preparations were complete; then he slid to the ground, threw his rein to the servant, and boldly walked across. In an instant he left behind him the dark street, the river, and the sounds of outrage, which the night breeze bore from the farther bank, and found himself within the vaulted gateway, in a bright glare of light, the centre of a ring of gleaming eyes and angry faces.
The light blinded him for a few seconds; but the guards, on their side, were in no better case. For the stranger was masked; and in their ignorance who it was looked at them through the slits in the black velvet they stared, disconcerted, and at a loss. There were some there with naked weapons in their hands who would have struck him through had they known who he was; and more who would have stood aside while the deed was done. But the uncertainty—that and the masked man’s tone paralyzed them. For they reflected that he might be anyone. Condé, indeed, stood too small, but Navarre, if he lived, might fill that cloak; or Guise, or Anjou, or the King himself. And while some would not have scrupled to strike the blood royal, more would have been quick to protect and avenge it. And so before the dark uncertainty of the mask, before the riddle of the smiling eyes which glittered through the slits, they stared irresolute; until a hand, the hand of one bolder than his fellows, was raised to pluck away the screen.
The unknown dealt the fellow a buffet with his fist. “Down, rascal!” he said hoarsely. “And you”—to the officer—“show me instantly to M. de Biron!”
But the lieutenant, who stood in fear of his men, looked at him doubtfully.
“Nay,” he said, “not so fast!” And one of the others, taking the lead, cried, “No! We may have no need of M. de Biron. Your name, monsieur, first.”
With a quick movement the stranger gripped the officer’s wrist.