“Nom du diable!” cried the commandant, when his lady's breath was gone, “what does this mean?”
“It means, sir,” answered Clark, promptly, “that you are my prisoner.”
“And who are you?” gasped the commandant.
“George Rogers Clark, Colonel in the service of the Commonwealth of Virginia.” He held out his hand restrainingly, for the furious Monsieur Rocheblave made an attempt to rise. “You will oblige me by remaining in bed, sir, for a moment.”
“Coquins! Canailles! Cochons!” shrieked the lady.
“Madame,” said Colonel Clark, politely, “the necessities of war are often cruel.”
He made a bow, and paying no further attention to the torrent of her reproaches or the threats of the helpless commandant, he calmly searched the room with the lantern, and finally pulled out from under the bed a metal despatch box. Then he lighted a candle in a brass candlestick that stood on the simple walnut dresser, and bowed again to the outraged couple in the four-poster.
“Now, sir,” he said, “you may dress. We will retire.”
“Pardieu!” said the commandant in French, “a hundred thousand thanks.”
We had scarcely closed the bedroom door when three shots were heard.