Just then Orthon, thinking it was his master who was coming in, went to meet him, and found himself face to face with five armed men. At the sight of that sinister countenance, of that Maurevel, whom men called Tueur du Roi, the faithful lad stepped back, and placed himself before the second door.
"In the king's name," said Maurevel, "where is your master?"
"My master?"
"Yes, the King of Navarre."
"The King of Navarre is not here," replied Orthon, still in front of the door.
"'Tis a lie," replied Maurevel. "Come! out of the way!"
The Béarnese are a headstrong race; Orthon growled in reply to this summons, like one of the dogs of his own mountains.
"You shall not go in," said he sturdily. "The king is absent." And he held the door to.
Maurevel made a sign; the four men seized the lad, pulled him away from the door-jambs to which he clung, and as he opened his mouth to cry out, Maurevel placed his hand over it. Orthon bit him furiously; the assassin snatched away his hand with a suppressed cry, and struck the boy on the head with his sword-hilt. Orthon staggered.
"Alarm! alarm! alarm!" cried he, as he fell senseless to the ground.