After that outcry, made by a man who was really in despair, the young courtier gave a bound, dagger in hand, and reached the landing. But the myrmidons of the grand provost were accustomed to such proceedings. When Georges d’Estouteville reached the stairs they seized him dexterously, not surprised by the vigorous thrust he made at them with his dagger, the blade of which fortunately slipped on the corselet of a guard; then, having disarmed him, they bound his hands, and threw him on the pallet before their leader, who stood motionless and thoughtful. Tristan looked silently at the prisoner’s hands, then he said to Cornelius, pointing to them:-- “Those are not the hands of a beggar, nor of an apprentice. He is a noble.” “Say a thief!” cried the torconnier. “My good Tristan, noble or serf, he has ruined me, the villain! I want to see his feet warmed in your pretty boots. He is, I don’t doubt it, the leader of that gang of devils, visible and invisible, who know all my secrets, open my locks, rob me, murder me! They have grown rich out of me, Tristan. Ha! this time we shall get back the treasure, for the fellow has the face of the king of Egypt. I shall recover my dear rubies, and all the sums I have lost; and our worthy king shall have his share in the harvest.” “Oh, our hiding-places are much more secure than yours!” said Georges, smiling. “Ha! the damned thief, he confesses!” cried the miser. The grand provost was engaged in attentively examining Georges d’Estouteville’s clothes and the lock of the door. “How did you get out those screws?” Georges kept silence. “Oh, very good, be silent if you choose. You will soon confess on the holy rack,” said Tristan. “That’s what I call business!” cried Cornelius. “Take him off,” said the grand provost to the guards. Georges d’Estouteville asked permission to dress himself. On a sign from their chief, the men put on his clothing with the clever rapidity of a nurse who profits by the momentary tranquillity of her nursling.