I declined to comply, on which, with great deliberation, he cocked his piece, drew his thumb-nail across the edge of the flint, to ensure its not missing fire, and deliberately placed the muzzle to my head. Whether or not the fellow would have dared to shoot an officer who was a prisoner of war, I cannot say, but on finding myself so vehemently pressed I drew off the ring, which he at once clutched, and put in his haversack, with a laugh and an oath, little foreseeing how dear the bauble was to cost him. At that moment a blow from behind stretched him on the earth. It was dealt by the clenched hand of Hob Elliot, who, poor fellow, ran imminent danger, for a dozen of fixed bayonets were directly levelled at him breast high, and he would have been instantly immolated, had not an officer of rank, accompanied by M. Gervais Monjoy, rushed forward from the castle-gate, by their influence and authority to stop the brawl. In the officer I recognised the count who had come with Monjoy for Prince Xavier's body, and who had been so deeply moved on beholding his remains exhumed on the field. To him I was about to prefer a complaint of the robbery, when he hurriedly turned away, having other matters to attend to, and I was left with the plunderer, who had divined my intention, and tapping the butt of his firelock, gave me a threatening grimace, so much as to say, "Beware!" Soon after this I was conducted into an ante-room, and thus separated from the rest of the prisoners, who were marched into the interior of the castle. As the ten men of the Greys left me, each came forward in succession and saluted me as I shook hands with them all, and some said-- "God bless you, sir; I hope we shall soon meet again." A hope--save in one instance--never realized by these worthy fellows, as nine of them died in French prisons, I know not where or how--probably at Bitsche or Verdun. The room in which I found myself appeared to be a kind of ante-chamber. Its windows were barred, and a sentinel with his bayonet fixed paced to and fro monotonously outside. Within were tables littered with letters, order-books, and several orderlies with canes and sidearms were loitering about on forms and benches. "Who commands here?" I inquired of one. "Monseigneur le Duc de Broglie," replied the soldier, with a polite bow; "this château of the prince of Ysembourg is his head-quarters, and in a few minutes monsieur will have the honour of being brought before him." At that moment I heard a voice at some distance say, with a tone of authority, "Monsieur le Comte de Bourgneuf, _bring in your prisoner_." At this unpleasant conjunction of names I felt my heart beat quick, and then I saw the colonel of the Regiment de Bretagne, the stern-looking bearer of the flag of truce, beckoning me follow him. I did so, and in another moment found myself in the presence of the famous Maréchal Duc de Broglie--the father of Jacqueline! CHAPTER VII. THE DUC DE BROGLIE.