threw himself between his daughter and the Count; "remove the villain, remove him."
But the bailiff, pleased with the facility the Count had displayed in surrendering to him, and not wishing to excite his anger, pleased above all at being able to show his authority without incurring resistance, bravely interposed.
"Pray, sir, allow the gentleman to speak to the lady," he said, "and to unburden his heart."
"But this man is an assassin," the Duke shouted violently, "before us is still lying the corpse of my unhappy son, killed by him."
"I pity you, sir," the myrmidon said without being at all affected; "I cannot offer any remedy for that; and you must make application in the proper quarter. Still, if it can be of any comfort to you, be convinced that I shall make a careful note of the accusation you bring, and will recall it to mind at the right time and place. But you must be equally eager to get rid of us, as we are to get away from here: hence allow this gentleman to bid farewell to the lady quietly, and I am convinced it will not take long."
The Duke darted a ferocious glance at the bailiff; but, not wishing to compromise himself with such a fellow, he did not answer, and fell back with a gloomy air.
The Count had watched this altercation without displaying either impatience or anger; with pale forehead and frowning brow, he waited, doubtless ready to break into some terrible extremity if his request were not granted.
The bailiff only required to take one look at him to guess what was passing in his heart; and, not feeling at all anxious for a fresh contest to begin, he had prudently manoeuvred to avoid it.
"Come," he said, "speak, my worthy gentleman, no one will oppose it."
"Thanks," the Count answered hoarsely and approached Doña Clara, who watched him advance with an ardent gaze fixed on him.
"Clara," he said to her in a firm and deeply marked voice, "do you love me?"
She hesitated for a moment and bowed her head while heaving a profound sigh.
"Do you love me?" he repeated.
"I do love you, Ludovic," she replied in a faint and trembling voice.
"Do you love me, as your husband before God and man, as the father of your child?"
The young lady rose, her black eyes flashed fire, and stretching out her hands before her, she said in a voice choked by emotion—
"In the presence of my father, who is ready to curse me, before the body of my dead brother and in the face of the men who are listening to me, I swear, Ludovic, that I love you as the father of my child, and that I shall remain faithful to you, whatever may happen."
"Very good, Clara," he answered, "God has received your oath and will help you to keep it; remember that, whether dead or alive, you belong to me as I belong to you, and that no person on earth shall break the ties that unite us. Now farewell, and keep your courage."
"Farewell!" she muttered, as she fell back in her chair and buried her face in her hands.
"Let us go, gentlemen! Do with me what you please," the Count said as he turned to the exempt and the guards, who were involuntarily affected by this scene.
The Duke bounded with a tiger leap on his daughter, and seizing her right arm with a frenzied gesture, he forced her to raise her tear-swollen face to his, and fixing on her a glance loaded with all the rage that swelled his heart, he said in a voice which fury rendered sibilant—
"Daughter, prepare to marry within two days, the man I destine for you. As for your child, you will never see it again; it no longer exists for you."
The young lady uttered a cry of despair and fell back deprived of her senses in the arms of Dame Tiphaine.
The Count, who at this moment was leaving the room, stopped short and turned round to the Duke with his arm stretched out toward him:
"Hangman," he shouted in a hoarse voice which chilled his auditors with horror, "I curse you, I swear on my honor as a gentlemen to take on you and yours so terrible a vengeance, that the memory of it shall remain eternal; and if I cannot reach you, you and the whole nation to which you belong shall be buried beneath the implacable weight of my hatred. Between us henceforth there is a war of savages and wild beasts, without truce or mercy; farewell."
And leaving the proud Spaniard horrified by this fearful anathema, the gentleman quitted the room with a firm step, and taking a last loving glance at the woman he adored, from whom he was perhaps eternally separated.
The passages, stairs, and inn garden were filled with armed men; it was evidently a miracle that the two sailors had succeeded in escaping and getting away safe and sound; this gave the Count, hope and he went down the stairs with an assured step, carefully watched by his escort who did not let him out of sight.
The guards had been long before warned that they would have to do with a naval officer possessing an inordinate violence of character, prodigious vigour and indomitable courage; hence the resignation of the prisoner, which they believed to be assumed, only inspired them with very slight confidence, and they were continually on the defensive.
When they came out into the garden the chief of the exempts noticed the coach, which was still standing at the door.
"Why," he said with a grin and rubbing his hands, "here's the very thing we want. In our hurry to get here, we forgot to provide ourselves with a coach; be good enough to get in, my lord," he said as he opened the door.
The Count got in without any further hesitation; and the exempts then addressed the driver who was sitting motionless on his box.
"Come down, scamp," he said in a tone of authority; "I require the use of this coach for an affair of state. Give up your place to one of my men. Wideawake," he added, turning to a tall impudent looking fellow standing by his side, "get up on the box in that man's place—let us be off."
The driver did not attempt to resist this peremptory order; he descended and his place was immediately taken by Wideawake; the exempt then entered the carriage, seated himself facing his prisoner, closed the door, and the steeds, aroused by a vigorous, lash, dashed forward dragging after them the heavy vehicle round which the twenty odd soldiers were collected.
For a considerable period the coach rolled along without a word being exchanged between the prisoner and his guard.
The Count was thinking, the exempt sleeping, or, to speak more correctly, pretending to sleep.
In the month of March the nights are beginning to shorten; daylight soon appeared, and broad white stripes were beginning to cross the sky.
The Count, who up to this moment had remained motionless, gave a slight start.
"Are you suffering, my lord?" the exempt inquired. This question was addressed to him with an intonation so different from that hitherto employed by the man who had made him prisoner; there was in the sound of his voice an accent so really gentle and sympathizing, that the Count involuntarily started, and took a fixed look at his singular companion: but so far as he could see by the faint light of coming dawn, the man in front of him still had the same crafty face and the same ironical smile stereotyped on his lips. The Count found himself in error, and throwing himself back, merely uttered one word, "No," in a tone intended to break off any attempt
