"Dare--_parbleu!_ from whom did you receive it?" "From yourself, in presence of M. Monjoy and the Chevalier de Boisguiller." "Signed, you say?" "Yes--look at it." "I _have_ looked; but it bears a signature Monseigneur de Broglie would scarcely recognise, and which no French soldier is bound to respect." "A forgery! Mean you to say that it is a forgery of yours?" I exclaimed, furiously. "Term it as you please," said he, tearing the paper to pieces; "'tis thus that I respect it." "The duke released me," I began, with some emotion of alarm--"released me on parole, and complimented me----" "Because you saved the life of his daughter from an outlaw--or pretend that you did so." "But you, her husband, M. le Comte----" "Mean to put you to death as a spy, who remained as such in Bretagne for several weeks, and who now as a prisoner seeks to escape, after lurking behind the French lines, of which the river Lahn is the present boundary." "Say, rather," said I, with unwise bitterness, "that with a jealous cowardice which has no parallel, you resolve to destroy me as one who loved the countess before she had the misfortune to become your wife." Enraged that this remark was made before the listening soldiers who crowded all the room, Bourgneuf said, with an oath and a scornful laugh-- "Ha!--think you so?" "I both think and say so." "What an intolerable world it would be if every man said all he thought, as you do; but I will meet you with the sword if you choose." "I will not fight with a would-be assassin." "The pistol then," he continued, grinding his teeth. "I will not fight with an assassin, even though he wear the uniform of a colonel of the French Line," I replied, resolutely, though the soldiers began to mutter angrily, and beat the floor with the butts of their muskets. "_Bah---pst! ce pistolet est en arrêt!_" said Bourgneuf, turning on his heel with a sneer on his cruel lip, and this pet phrase of the French soldiers (implying the "white feather") so enraged me, that I could with pleasure have pistolled him on the spot. Looking round for a man in whom he could trust, he selected a corporal, a most sinister-looking fellow, whose nose was quite awry, and whose shaggy eyebrows met over it in one. To him he gave a _whispered order_, and though my ear was painfully acute at such a time, I could only detect the words, "distance--sound of firing might not disturb--buried in the snow." The man with the crooked nose and huge chevrons saluted his colonel, and desired me to follow him, which I did immediately, conceiving that my chances were always better with one man than with a score. As we left the room a gleam of triumphant malice sparkled in the eyes of Bourgneuf, and he gave me an ironical bow. When _next_ I saw his face its expression was very different.