“Madame, I shall lose my temper with you.”
“It is lost already, Messire Croquart. Try the flat of your sword, or the edge thereof if it pleases you. I am not afraid.”
“I shall have to put you up into the saddle.”
“You cannot keep me from falling off.”
“Hands and feet can be tied, eh?”
“Yes, and I have a knife.”
“Pah, madame, am I a fool? I tell you I am in no temper to be bated.”
“Get down, then, sir, and see if you can run in your heavy harness. Meanwhile the Sire de Tinteniac might have his rest.”
Croquart opened his mouth to swear, but mastered himself with an effort, as though realizing that the species of dictatorship was not crowned with too much dignity.
“Come, madame, be reasonable.”