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I had brought a rope from the inn, and we slung it over the lower bough of the tree.

‘You will permit me, monsieur, to undo your collar,’ said Papilette, with mock politeness.

‘If your hands are perfectly clean,’ answered our prisoner, and set the whole half-squadron laughing.

There was another yell from the wall, followed by a profound hush as the noose was tightened round Marshal Millefleurs’ neck. Then came a shriek from a bugle, the Abbey gates flew open, and three men rushed out waving white cloths in their hands. Ah, how my heart bounded with joy at the sight of them. And yet I would not advance an inch to meet them, so that all the eagerness might seem to be upon their side. I allowed my trumpeter, however, to wave a handkerchief in reply, upon which the three envoys came running towards us. The Marshal, still pinioned, and with the rope round his neck, sat his horse with a half smile, as one who is slightly bored and yet strives out of courtesy not to show it. If I were in such a situation I could not wish to carry myself better, and surely I can say no more than that.

They were a singular trio, these ambassadors. The one was a Portuguese cacadore in his dark uniform, the second a French chasseur in the lightest green, and the third a big English artilleryman in blue and gold. They saluted, all three, and the Frenchman did the talking.

‘We have thirty-seven English dragoons in our hands,’ said he. ‘We give you our most solemn oath that they shall all hang from the Abbey wall within five minutes of the death of our Marshal.’

‘Thirty-seven!’ I cried. ‘You have fifty-one.’

‘Fourteen were cut down before they could be secured.’

‘And the officer?’

‘He would not surrender his sword save with his life. It was not our fault. We would have saved him if we could.’

Alas for my poor Bart! I had met him but twice, and yet he was a man very much after my heart. I have always had a regard for the English for the sake of that one friend. A braver man and a worse swordsman I have never met.

I did not, as you may think, take these rascals’ word for anything. Papilette was dispatched with one of them, and returned to say that it was too true. I had now to think of the living.

‘You will release the thirty-seven dragoons if I free your leader?’

‘We will give you ten of them.’

‘Up with him!’ I cried.

‘Twenty,’ shouted the chasseur.

‘No more words,’ said I. ‘Pull on the rope!’

‘All of them,’ cried the envoy, as the cord tightened round the Marshal’s neck.

‘With horses and arms?’

They could see that I was not a man to jest with.

‘All complete,’ said the chasseur, sulkily.

‘And the Countess of La Ronda as well?’ said I.

But here I met with firmer opposition. No threats of mine could induce them to give up the Countess. We tightened the cord. We moved the horse. We did all but leave the Marshal suspended. If once I broke his neck the dragoons were dead men. It was as precious to me as to them.

‘Allow me to remark,’ said the Marshal, blandly, ‘that you are exposing me to a risk of a quinsy. Do you not think, since there is a difference of opinion upon this point, that it would be an excellent idea to consult the lady herself? We would neither of us, I am sure, wish to override her own inclinations.’

Nothing could be more satisfactory. You can imagine how quickly I grasped at so simple a solution. In ten minutes she was before us, a most stately dame, with her grey curls peeping out from under her mantilla. Her face was as yellow as though it reflected the countless doubloons of her treasury.

‘This gentleman,’ said the Marshal, ‘is exceedingly anxious to convey you to a place where you will never see us more. It is for you to decide whether you would wish to go with him, or whether you prefer to remain with me.’