“If we do,” was the answer, “what will De Marsac say? You know he wants him” (meaning me) “for a purpose.”
The word De Marsac struck strangely on my ears.
“Oh!” I exclaimed. “De Marsac had better look out for himself. There is some one on his heels.”
They turned to me together like a flash.
“What!” they exclaimed. “Who?”
“The Black Prince!” I called boldly. “He will——”
They laughed in my face.
“The Black Prince is on his way to the west to join the starving remnants of his army,” I was told. “We thought you meant the Abbot of Chalonnes.”
My mouth fell agape. I searched their faces and they searched mine. The fellow who had grappled with me first made a signal to the other, and turned towards the table to pick up the dagger. The man with the wounded hand slouched over towards me. He had his good fist curled in a knot, no doubt to crash it against my skull.
I felt that it was my end. I took a firm hold on the arms of the chair to dodge or fight them to the last of my strength.