Pomperant, though much bruised, tried to disengage himself, but, ere he could do so, Florae had dismounted, and holding him down, presented a poniard at his throat.
“I arrest your highness in the king's name,” cried Florae. “You are my prisoner.”
“Why do you address me by that title?” demanded Pomperant. “For whom do you take me?”
“For Charles de Bourbon, Constable of France, a rebel and a traitor to the king,” rejoined Florae. “Fortune has, indeed, favoured me. I shall obtain the ten thousand gold crowns offered by his majesty for your highness's capture.”
“You will obtain no reward for my capture,” said Pomperant. “I am not Bourbon.”
“This denial will not avail with me, prince,” rejoined Florae. “I know you too well. Yield yourself my prisoner, or——”
“Never!” exclaimed Pomperant, seizing his antagonist's wrist, and preventing him from using the poniard.
A desperate struggle then ensued between them. Florae was a very powerful man, and, being uppermost, had a great advantage over Pomperant, who, moreover, could not extricate himself from his horse.
The issue of the conflict could not therefore be doubted especially as the troopers were preparing to aid their leader, when at this juncture a sharp report was heard from above. A well-directed bullet pierced Florae's brain, and he sank an inert mass upon Pomperant's breast.
Looking up, the troopers perceived Marcelline on the edge of a rock, with a smoking petronel in her hand.