There was a ring in the Vicomte’s voice that showed he meant every word he said. It was one thing to beard Sancerre, who, highly placed as he was, held no great office; it was, however, quite another thing to cross Cipierre, whose power as Governor of Orleans, and as a general of cavalry, was sufficient to crush a man like Richelieu easily. He felt, too, that every moment he delayed weakened the ground under his feet, and made our belief that he held no warrant for the arrest a certainty. As a matter of fact, he had not, and confessed it the next moment. “I have not the warrant with me,” he said, sullenly. “Whose was the order, then--the King’s, the Chancellor’s?” “My instructions were from the Cardinal,” and then, recovering his spirit, “and they are enough for me.” Cipierre laughed harshly. “So, monsieur, your orders came from the Cardinal, and they are enough for you, are they? Since when did Charles of Lorraine become Colonel of Carabiniers? Or is it that you think you wear the iron and yellow of Guise, instead of the silver and red of the King’s House? Come, Sancerre, end this farce--show him the signet and let him be gone.” Richelieu had paled to the lips with anger as Cipierre spoke; but prudence, and perhaps fear, kept him still--and now his eyes were fixed on the signet that Sancerre held toward him. “It is the King’s,” he said, in a voice thick with rage. “And you obey that, or do you refuse? If you refuse, I will order your own men to arrest you,” said the Vicomte. “I have no option but to obey.” “Very well! Call off your guard from the door! And to-morrow the King will know what a servant he has in you.” Richelieu was no coward, and the stinging words of Cipierre’s voice raised the man to fury. He put his hand to the hilt of his sword, and then, recollecting himself, withdrew it slowly; but it was in a voice that trembled with passion that he answered: “Monsieur le Vicomte, I obey the King’s signet. These gentlemen are free. But you, monsieur--I have a word with you----” “Tush, man!” and Cipierre broke in roughly upon his speech. “You think you are in a tavern. I cannot cross swords with you. The difference between us is too great. Come! Call off your guards!” And Richelieu did as he was bidden without another word. In passing out, however, I had my opportunity. “Monsieur,” I said, “I shall be pleased to hear the word you intended for Monsieur le Vicomte.” A dark flush came on his face. “In another place,” he answered. “In your own place, and at your own time, monsieur. I commend myself to you,” and with a slight bow we separated. “They will do their utmost to get the pardon recalled to-morrow,” said Marcilly, as we trotted down the silent square of Ste. Croix. “Remember, however,” I said, “that I am under the protection of Monsieur of Arles. He wants me as a free agent, as he said. I fear little for myself for the next few days.”