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There were five against us when I fell, and now your bloody sword tells a heroic tale. But here, Etienne," and he turned to his only surviving retainer, who had stood all this time staring stupidly at La Pommeraye as if he had been a god suddenly descended from the sky, "look to the wounded, and you, Bastienne, help him. Are all my brave fellows dead?
He was still kneeling beside the fallen man, and somewhat to his surprise he felt his hand clutched and pressed, showing that his explanation had been understood and accepted. De Roberval was soon completely restored to consciousness. He attempted to rise, but when he put his right hand on the ground he fell back with a groan. La Pommeraye saw in an instant what was wrong.
He was soon at the inn to which for years he had resorted when in St Malo, and after a breakfast that would have satisfied Goliath himself, he went to his room to snatch forty winks to brace and refresh him for further adventures. A few minutes before the hour designated by Roberval, La Pommeraye appeared in front of the house, which had now become a kind of magnet for his feet.
"My sword has never been found in the scabbard when the King had need of it," replied Charles, and he added, threateningly, "nor will it ever be allowed to rust when the weak call for help, or if they are beyond help, for revenge." Roberval blanched. He saw that La Pommeraye had in some way become aware of his infamous treatment of his niece and De Pontbriand.
But he is not far wrong this time. The man who could defeat De Roberval is indeed a monarch among men." There was a steel-like ring in his voice as he spoke; Cartier and De Pontbriand looked at each other, and both wondered what fate he had in store for La Pommeraye. "But," he continued, "we have much work before us to-night, let us settle down to it at once.
It would be out of the question, however, to start before the spring, as the season was now so far advanced; and La Pommeraye decided to let Cartier go to court without him, as the winter would give them plenty of time to consider their plans.
I would not even let his body remain within my castle walls." Kill La Pommeraye himself he knew he could not, but the old honour of the man had become so sapped that he felt little compunction when he resolved to have him murdered under his own roof.
When it was finished he recklessly dashed into a Spanish ditty, commemorating the defeat of King Francis at Pavia. In this he was interrupted by an angry voice at his elbow: "A pleasing pastime for a son of France to sing the glory of her foes!" "So ho!" replied La Pommeraye cheerfully, "Monsieur's anger has not yet cooled.
Half-a-dozen other weapons instantly flashed in the sunlight; but La Pommeraye, recollecting that he had no quarrel with any save one of their number, sheathed his blade, and unheeding the shouts of welcome from some of the party who recognised him, beckoned De Roberval aside from the group. "My presence here alarms you," he said, for the nobleman's sudden pallor had not escaped his notice.
"You are surprised," said La Pommeraye, "that I have not killed you. It is not mercy; I but respect the hospitality of your roof. I will let you live for a time, tortured by your coward's conscience, and then I will strike you down. Assassin, your plot was discovered.
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