The House of the Wolf: A RomanceWeyman, Stanley John
General
The House of the Wolf: A Romance
Weyman, Stanley John
Saint Bartholomew's Day, Massacre of, France, 1572 -- Fiction
They did not answer, but separated more widely so as to form a
half-circle: and one of them whistled. On the instant a knot of men
started out of the line of houses, and came quickly across the strip of
light towards us.
The position seemed serious. If I could have run indeed--but I glanced
round, and found escape in that fashion impossible. There were men
crouching on the steps behind me, between me and the river. I had
fallen into a trap. Indeed, there was nothing for it now but to do as
Madame had bidden me, and play the man boldly. I had the words still
ringing in my ears. I had enough of the excitement I had lately felt
still bounding in my veins to give nerve and daring. I folded my arms
and drew myself up.
"Knaves!" I said, with as much quiet contempt as I could muster, "you
mistake me. You do not know whom you have to deal with. Get me a boat,
and let two of you row me across. Hinder me, and your necks shall
answer for it--or your backs!"
A laugh and an oath of derision formed the only response, and before I
could add more, the larger group arrived, and joined the three.
"Who is it, Pierre?" asked one of these in a matter-of-fact way, which
showed I had not fallen amongst mere thieves.
The speaker seemed to be the leader of the band. He had a feather in
his bonnet, and I saw a steel corslet gleam under his cloak, when some
one held up a lanthorn to examine me the better. His trunk-hose were
striped with black, white, and green--the livery as I learned
afterwards of Monsieur the King's brother, the Duke of Anjou,
afterwards Henry the Third; then a close friend of the Duke of Guise,
and later his murderer. The captain spoke with a foreign accent, and
his complexion was dark to swarthiness. His eyes sparkled and flashed
like black beads. It was easy to see that he was an Italian.
"A gallant young cock enough," the soldier who had whistled answered;
"and not quite of the breed we expected." He held his lanthorn towards
me and pointed to the white badge on my sleeve. "It strikes me we have
caught a crow instead of a pigeon!"
"How comes this?" the Italian asked harshly, addressing me. "Who are
you? And why do you wish to cross the river at this time of night,
young sir?"
I acted on the inspiration of the moment. "Play the man boldly!"
Madame had said. I would: and I did with a vengeance. I sprang
forward and seizing the captain by the clasp of his cloak, shook him
violently, and flung him off with all my force, so that he reeled.
"Dog!" I exclaimed, advancing, as if I would seize him again. "Learn
how to speak to your betters! Am I to be stopped by such sweepings as
you? Hark ye, I am on the King's service!"
He fairly spluttered with rage. "More like the devil's!" he
exclaimed, pronouncing his words abominably, and fumbling vainly for
his weapon. "King's service or no service you do not insult Andrea
Pallavicini!"
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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