A hard smile caught at the corners of his mouth.
“Have I shown fear?” he demanded.
“They’re drawing a ring around us,” I said. “We’ll starve in the woods in a day or two. We’ll be as weak as cats. Then they’ll close in.”
The scrivener gave a twang to his bow-string. The old spirit of his flashed out for a second and he grinned.
“I wish they would close in now,” he replied. “They know the mettle of the highwayman of Tours. They know how I can strike when they least expect it. Pshaw!” He spat contemptuously on the ground. “They have all the same feeling—if they harm a hair of my head, they will die like dogs!”
“If you’re not afraid, master scrivener,” I went on, “why are you so serious?”
He spun around like a top.
“Serious!” he exclaimed. “Do you think a man ought not to plan? Why, lad, I’m scheming as hard as I can to pull you out of this difficulty.”
“—me!” I cried.
He shot a look at me.