The chaos of tongues, loud in altercation and dispute, now burst forth again, some asserting that the cause of quarrel should be openly declared at once, others averring that the opprobrious epithet applied by Linton to the Duke effectually debarred negotiation, and left no other arbitrament than the pistol. In the midst of this tumult, where angry passions were already enlisted, and insolent rejoinders passed from mouth to mouth, a still louder uproar was now heard in the direction of the _salon_, and the crash of a breaking door, and the splintering noise of the shattered wood, overtopped the other sounds. “The commissaire de police!” cried some one, and the words were electric. The hours of play were illegal,--the habits of the house such as to implicate all in charges more or less disgraceful; and immediately a general rush was made for escape,--some seeking the well-known private issues from the apartment, others preparing for a bold attempt to force their passage through the armed followers of the commissary. Every avenue of escape had been already occupied by the gendarmes; and the discomfited gamblers were seen returning into the room crestfallen and ashamed, when the commissary, followed by a knot of others in plain clothes, advancing into the middle of the chamber, pronounced the legal form of arrest on all present. “I am a peer of France,” said the Duc de Marsac, haughtily. “I yield to no authority that does not carry the signature of my sovereign.” “You are free, Monsieur le Duc,” said the commissary, bowing respectfully. “I am an English gentleman,” said Linton, stepping forward. “I demand by what right you presume to detain me in custody?” “What is your name, sir?” asked the commissary. “Linton!” was the brief reply. “That's the man,” whispered a voice from behind the commissary; and, at the same instant, that functionary approached, and laying his hand on the other's shoulder, said,-- “I arrest you, sir, on the charge of murder.” “Murder!” repeated Linton, with a sneer that he could not merge into a laugh. “This is a sorry jest, sir.” “You will find it sad earnest!” said a deep voice. Linton turned round, and straight in front of him stood Roland Cashel, who, with bent brows and compressed lips, seemed struggling to repress the passion that worked within him. “I say, Frobisher, are you omitted in the indictment?” cried Linton, with a sickly attempt to laugh; “or has our buccaneering friend forgotten to stigmatize you for the folly of having known him?” “He is in _my_ custody,” said a gruff English voice, in reply to some observation of the commissary; and a short, stout-built man made a gesture to another in the crowd to advance. [Illustration: 422] “What! is this indignity to be put upon me?” said Linton, as he saw the handcuffs produced, and prepared to be adjusted to his wrists. “Is the false accusation of a pirate and a slaver to expose me to the treatment of a convicted felon?”