I glanced at the Count and measured his strength with my own, which it far surpassed, for his proportions and muscles were gigantic; I measured too the distance that lay between us; by one bound I could have cleared it, but a bullet would reach me with the rapidity of light. A contest with a man more powerful than myself by one half, and one who was so well armed, while I, faint with toil, was quite defenceless, would have been recklessly to throw away all chance of safety and escape; and now, while the roar of falconets on the bartizan overhead shook the keep from cope to groundstone while the French cannon opened from the brow of the opposite hill, I dipped the pen in the ink, and gave the Count a furious, glance to which he replied by an insolent laugh, and pointing with the muzzle of his loaded pistol to a sheet of fine white Dutch paper, said-- 'Begin, monsieur, for I am leaving M. Schreckhorn alone to contend with those friends of yours, the feather-bed soldiers of Louis XIII. Begin thus-- '_My dear Mademoiselle de Lorraine--_' Curious to learn what he had in view, and moreover to gain time, I slowly wrote the preamble, and he continued to dictate, amid the concussion of the adverse artillery, which shook the old feudal castle to its basement. '_Now that I am beyond the reach of your many attractions, a sentiment of remorse compels me to inform you that the love I profess to bear you_--have you got all that down, my young moustache?' 'Yes, M. le Comte--proceed.' '_The love I have professed to bear you is alike absurd and futile. Mademoiselle, you have lavished all the young affection of your pure and noble heart upon a vile, a false, and worthless object; for I tell you, with shame and contrition, that I am already the husband of a pretty citoyenne of Zaberne--_' 'But this is an infamous falsehood, Comte!' 'Proceed, I command you,' replied De Bitche, levelling his pistol across the table, and throwing a furious glance at the French cannon, the shot from which were coming over the valley with a sound between a boom and a scream. '_That I desire you will cease to think more of me, and pardon the presumption of one who is every way unworthy of you; who begs to return your letter, and to subscribe himself, Mademoiselle, your most devoted servant----Done at Zaberne--_' 'But this is Phalsbourg?' Again the black muzzle of the pistol threatened me. '_The 15th day of June--God and our Lady take you into holy keeping_. And now, M. Blane--your signature in its usual fashion.' 'Rascal!' thought I; 'so this is the plan of your little campaign?' 'Your signature--your signature,' he continued, pressing his finger upon the trigger of the loaded pistol.