"Nor
your master's!"
The Lieutenant-Governor sprang to his feet. "M. le Comte," he stammered,
"I do not understand this language! Nor this heat, which may be real or
not! All I say is, if there be foul play here--"
"If!" Tavannes retorted. "At least, if there be, there be gibbets too!
And I see necks!" he added, leaning forward. "Necks!" And then, with a
look of flame, "Let no man leave this table until I return," he cried,
"or he will have to deal with me. Nay," he continued, changing his tone
abruptly, as the prudence, which never entirely left him--and perhaps the
remembrance of the other's fifty spearmen--sobered him in the midst of
his rage, "I am hasty. I mean not you, M. de Montsoreau! Ride where you
will; ride with me, if you will, and I will thank you. Only remember,
until midnight Angers is mine!"
He was still speaking when he moved from the table, and, leaving all
staring after him, strode down the room. An instant he paused on the
threshold and looked back; then he passed out, and clattered down the
stone stairs. His horse and riders were waiting, but, his foot in the
stirrup, he stayed for a word with Bigot.
"Is it so?" he growled.
The Norman did not speak, but pointed towards the Place Ste.-Croix,
whence an occasional shot made answer for him.
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