“Look you there,” said the Count, “you see how easy it is to ask questions, but how difficult to answer them. Why, I myself, who have been at Peronne with the Duke for this week and better, cannot resolve this riddle any more than you, and yet, Sir Squire, upon the solution of that question depends the said point, whether you are prisoner or free man, and, for the present, I must hold you as the former.—Only, if you have really and honestly been of service to my kinswoman, and for you are candid in your answers to the questions I shall ask, affairs shall stand the better with you.”
“The Countess of Croye,” said Quentin, “is best judge if I have rendered any service, and to her I refer you on that matter. My answers you will yourself judge of when you ask me your questions.”
“Umph!—haughty enough,” muttered the Count of Crevecoeur, “and very like one that wears a lady's favour in his hat, and thinks he must carry things with a high tone, to honour the precious remnant of silk and tinsel. Well, sir, I trust it will be no abatement of your dignity, if you answer me, how long you have been about the person of the Lady Isabelle of Croye?”
“Count of Crevecoeur,” said Quentin Durward, “if I answer questions which are asked in a tone approaching towards insult, it is only lest injurious inferences should be drawn from my silence respecting one to whom we are both obliged to render justice. I have acted as escort to the Lady Isabelle since she left France to retire into Flanders.”
“Ho! ho!” said the Count, “and that is to say, since she fled from Plessis les Tours?—You, an Archer of the Scottish Guard, accompanied her, of course, by the express orders of King Louis?”
However little Quentin thought himself indebted to the King of France, who, in contriving the surprisal of the Countess Isabelle by William de la Marck, had probably calculated on the young Scotchman's being slain in her defence, he did not yet conceive himself at liberty to betray any trust which Louis had reposed, or had seemed to repose, in him, and therefore replied to Count Crevecoeur's inference that it was sufficient for him to have the authority of his superior officer for what he had done, and he inquired no farther.
“It is quite sufficient,” said the Count. “We know the King does not permit his officers to send the Archers of his Guard to prance like paladins by the bridle rein of wandering ladies, unless he hath some politic purpose to serve. It will be difficult for King Louis to continue to aver so boldly that he knew' not of the Ladies of Croye's having escaped from France, since they were escorted by one of his own Life guard.—And whither, Sir Archer, was your retreat directed?”
“To Liege, my lord,” answered the Scot, “where the ladies desired to be placed under the protection of the late Bishop.”
“The late Bishop!” exclaimed the Count of Crevecoeur, “is Louis of Bourbon dead?—Not a word of his illness had reached the Duke.—Of what did he die?”
“He sleeps in a bloody grave, my lord—that is, if his murderers have conferred one on his remains.”