'Here,' growled a voice, as a tall, swarthy man, who, with his laced pourpoint unbuttoned, and his black hair dishevelled, had been asleep on a fauteuil, started up, and I found myself confronted with the Count de Bitche. He uttered a shout of savage and half-drunken laughter; while, with a sinking heart, I found that, by my own unwariness, I had fallen into a deadly trap at last. CHAPTER LIV. DE BITCHE. 'M. l'Abbé, alias M. Blane de Blanerne, alias M. Scaramouche le Moucharde, welcome! most welcome to share the hospitality of Phalsbourg!' exclaimed De Bitche, twisting up his enormous black moustache; 'by Beelzebub, but this is a most unexpected pleasure, for we had quite given up all hope of seeing you again!' 'Perhaps so, M. le Comte, after murdering a poor soldier, in mistake for me, on the Nanci road.' 'Your predilection for wandering outside your own camp is marvellous; but we must cure you of it. Corboeuf! I would that Pappenheim were here, to share with me the pleasure of giving you a welcome.' When I gazed on the demon-like eye of this infamous noble--a strangler, a gambler, and debaucher--I almost believed in the sorceries and diablerie imputed to him by the simple peasantry of Alsace and Lorraine. 'Well, mon condottiere,' continued the Count, in his bantering manner; 'you gaze at me curiously--you remember having met me before, I think?' 'Those who once behold your face, will never forget it;' said I, making a violent effort to repress my growing anger. 'Oh, milles demons! one could not be mistaken then?' 'No, M. le Comte--those who once see your visage, will never behold another like it.' 'Especially if they are in your perilous perdicament. You walk stiffly--your spurs drip blood. By St. Nicholas! M. Blane, you have ridden fast from Nanci; but not fast enough to escape me, who left it before you; though six miles further on you would have found Messieurs Hepburn and Lavalette, peppering Zaberne (a bitter reflection certainly) with culverin and caliver. Had your horse wings? But we shall not inquire. My dear M. Blane, I have you here snug enough, and here you shall remain; for unless you write me a little billet to my dictation, I shall hang you like a dog.' 'Hang?' I exclaimed, laying my hand on my sword. He nodded his head, adding, 'Unless you pen for me a little billet.' 'A billet?' 'Milles demons! yes--I speak plain enough.' 'To whom?' 'Mademoiselle de Lorraine,' said he, in a hoarse whisper. 'Count, you are a villain!' 'M. le Commandant!' exclaimed at least twenty men, knitting their brows and grasping their swords. 'Nay, nay, gentlemen,' said he, 'be patient, I pray you. It is a defect of these Scots to be somewhat plainly spoken.'