“Hold your tongue, wife, I command you,” said the stout-hearted miller.
“But I can't stand by and see your throat cut, Benoit,” she rejoined. “I must speak.”
“Certainly you must, unless you desire to become a widow,” said Warthy. “You may as well confess that Bourbon is here. Your looks betray you. He cannot escape, for the house is surrounded, and I don't mean to leave a hole or corner unvisited. Where is the traitor, I say?”
“Where is he, Benoit?” she cried, appealing to her husband. “For my sake, don't sacrifice yourself.”
“Woman, you have lost your senses,” said the miller, angrily. “What do I know about the Duke de Bourbon?”
“You know a great deal more than you appear inclined to tell, rascal,” rejoined Warthy. “But I will have the truth from you. I give you five minutes for consideration,” he added, releasing him, “and if at the end of that time Bourbon be not forthcoming, I will execute my threat, and hang you at your own door.”
Without another word, he took the light which Margot had set down upon the table, and, signing to two of his men to follow him, ascended the staircase. In less than five minutes he came down again, his countenance betraying anger and disappointment.
“Well, have you found him?” inquired Benoit, who had not been allowed to exchange a word with his wife during Warthy's absence.
“Not yet, but I soon shall,” replied Warthy. “He has only just left his couch. Now, madame,” he continued, in a stern tone, to Margot, “do you desire to see your husband hanged?”
“Oh no, monseigneur! I would rather you hanged me than Benoit.”