White with rage, if not from fear, the marquis struggled to free himself from Tournay's grasp, but he could neither throw off his antagonist nor move his arm enough to draw his sword. Finding himself powerless in the hands of the stronger man, he remained passive, only the twitching of his mouth betraying his passion.
"And you would prevent my marriage," he said coldly. "So be it. Go to the baron; tell your story. Go also to mademoiselle, his daughter; repeat the scandal to her ears; say, 'I am your champion;' and how will they receive you? The baron will have you kicked from the room and mademoiselle will scorn you. Championed by a servant! What an honor for a lady!"
The truth of what he said struck Tournay harder than any blow; his arms dropped to his side, and he stepped back, as if powerless.
The marquis arranged the lace ruffle about his neck. Placing his hand upon his sword he eyed Tournay as if debating what course to pursue. He smarted under the treatment he had received, and his eyes glittered viciously as if he meditated some prompt reprisal. But above all the marquis was politic, and he also knew that in his biting tongue he possessed a weapon keener than a sword.
He stooped and plucked a flower from the border of the path, and as he spoke a sarcastic smile played mockingly about his lips.
"I shall marry mademoiselle," he began, slowly dwelling on each word, while he plucked the petals from the flower, and tossed them, one by one, into the air. The gesture was a careless one, but there was a vicious cruelty about his fingers as he tore the flower. "And you," continued the marquis,—"you, who one might think had dared to raise your eyes toward the lady's face"—
Tournay stood dumb before his inquisitor. His heart raged and he writhed as if under the lash, but still he stood passive and suffering.
"And you shall be our servant," ended the nobleman, with a laugh, turning and walking haughtily up the path, but with his hand still on his sword-hilt lest he should be again taken by surprise.
As the heels of the marquis crunched the gravel-walk Tournay felt the truth of each word that he had spoken borne in upon his mind with overwhelming force. It was not fear of the marquis's sword that had kept him silent. It was the hopelessness of his own position. What right had he to speak? And who would listen to him?
Silently the young man slipped into the forest as if to seek consolation from the great murmuring trees. As he walked slowly beneath their green arches as under some cathedral roof, a quiet strength came to his soul. He seemed to feel that the day would come when his voice would be heard and listened to. Until then he must bide his time; and in this frame of mind he went back to the château.