“Then, sir, what do you intend to do with me?” D’Entragues asked, the air of fierceness with which he looked from me to the six men who remained barely disguising his apprehensions.
“That depends, M. Louis,” I replied, recurring to my usual tone of politeness, “on your answers to three questions.”
He shrugged his shoulders. “Ask them,” he said, curtly.
“Do you deny that you have laid an ambush for the king on the road which passes the Rock of the Serpents?”
“Absolutely.”
“Or that you were yesterday at an inn near here in converse with three men?”
“Absolutely.”
“Do you deny that there is such an ambush laid?”
“Absolutely,” he repeated, with scorn. “It is an old wives’ story. I would stake my life on it.”
“Enough,” I answered, slowly. “You have been your own judge. The evening grows cold, and as you are my prisoner I must have a care of you. Kindly put on this cloak and precede me, M. d’Entragues. We return to Fontainebleau by the Rock of the Serpents.”