The words came like the hiss of a poison snake. They had come to the end of the meal now and were trifling with their wineglasses--that is, Chanot and Chardon did so. Leduc and Violet looked on stupidly, but not yet ready for any movement against their chief. Only Matteo had become intractable. He at least would not be done out of his prize by a handful of fine words. So Chanot should know. Matteo was in the house of the treasure, and he meant to have his fingers among the clinking pieces. "_Kill, man, kill, or I shall kill!_" Chanot looked about apprehensively. Surely this time they must have heard. But my father continued his talk upon the early art of Provence and from her end of the table Alida placidly listened, all her thoughts intent on the speaker. Matteo rose unsteadily and stumbled towards her. She sat back in her chair with a gesture of fear. For the big hairy hands of the Arquan were groping to seize her. "Oh, take him away," she cried, turning to Chanot as the leader, perhaps also because of the human qualities she had seen in his eyes--not exactly good, but with the capacity for good. "I shall take the _donzella_!" cried Matteo, and caught her about the neck. Linn was beside her in a moment, but even her powerful hands could not disengage that hairy clutch. The fierce visage frothing at the lips was close to Alida's face. She moved her head this way and that. "Save me--save me!" she cried out in an agony of fear. "_Kill--kill--lay out the others--take your gold--the gold I found for you--the girl for me!_" All were now on their feet. Chardon was watching his chief. Chanot's face was pale as wood ash, but there was on it a kind of joy--the strength of a new resolve. "To the door--Leduc, and you, Violet," he ordered, "wait for me outside. I have something which will satisfy you!" The men moved uncertainly away. Things were turning out strangely. Was Chanot turning traitor? If so--they would see. But the power of the stronger will was upon them, and they were soon in the garden. They came out on a dark, shadowy world, in which all things seemed of the same colour, but scented of flowers and the full bloom of the _tilleul_, the bee-haunted lime tree of the south. Above them they heard the irregular rattle of musketry, and the din of combat. A fierce light beat upon the tree-tops at intervals. No fire could pierce like that. The gleam was far too steady. It looked like the beam of an electric arc-lamp, but how could the Jesuit professors of St. Andre have come into possession of such a thing? Within the house of Gobelet they heard the voice of Matteo uplifted. "_Kill--kill--you have turned soft, I shall kill you, Chanot. Matteo of Arqua is not to be cheated!_"