“Umph!—Ay—this is a blade of another temper.—And pray, my cousin, what has this—this very young gentleman done, to deserve such intercession at your hands?”
“He has saved my life and honour,” said the Countess, reddening with shame and resentment.
Quentin also blushed with indignation, but wisely concluded that to give vent to it might only make matters worse.
“Life and honour?—Umph!” said again the Count Crevecoeur, “methinks it would have been as well, my cousin, if you had not put yourself in the way of lying under such obligations to this very young gentleman.—But let it pass. The young gentleman may wait on us, if his quality permit, and I will see he has no injury—only I will myself take in future the office of protecting your life and honour, and may perhaps find for him some fitter duty than that of being a squire of the body to damosels errant.”
“My Lord Count,” said Durward, unable to keep silence any longer, “lest you should talk of a stranger in slighter terms than you might afterwards think becoming, I take leave to tell you, that I am Quentin Durward, an Archer of the Scottish Bodyguard, in which, as you well know, none but gentlemen and men of honour are enrolled.”
“I thank you for your information, and I kiss your hands, Seignior Archer,” said Crevecoeur, in the same tone of raillery. “Have the goodness to ride with me to the front of the party.”
As Quentin moved onward at the command of the Count, who had now the power, if not the right, to dictate his motions, he observed that the Lady Isabelle followed his motions with a look of anxious and timid interest, which amounted almost to tenderness, and the sight of which brought water into his eyes. But he remembered that he had a man's part to sustain before Crevecoeur, who, perhaps of all the chivalry in France or Burgundy, was the least likely to be moved to anything but laughter by a tale of true love sorrow. He determined, therefore, not to wait his addressing him, but to open the conversation in a tone which should assert his claim to fair treatment, and to more respect than the Count, offended perhaps at finding a person of such inferior note placed so near the confidence of his high born and wealthy cousin, seemed disposed to entertain for him.
“My Lord Count of Crevecoeur,” he said, in a temperate but firm tone of voice, “may I request of you, before our interview goes farther, to tell me if I am at liberty, or am to account myself your prisoner?”
“A shrewd question,” replied the Count, “which at present I can only answer by another.—Are France and Burgundy, think you, at peace or war with each other?”
“That,” replied the Scot, “you, my lord, should certainly know better than I. I have been absent from the Court of France, and have heard no news for some time.”