'EH BIEN!,' he said with marvellous composure. 'Taken at last!
Well, I was tired of it.'
'You are my prisoner, M. de Cocheforet,' I answered. 'Move a
hand and I kill you. But you have still a choice.'
'Truly?' he said, raising his eyebrows.
'Yes. My orders are to take you to Paris alive or dead. Give me
your parole that you will make no attempt to escape, and you
shall go thither at your ease and as a gentleman. Refuse, and I
shall disarm and bind you, and you go as a prisoner.'
'What force have you?' he asked curtly. He still lay on his
elbow, his cloak covering him, the little Marot in which he had
been reading close to his hand. But his quick black eyes, which
looked the keener for the pallor and thinness of his face, roved
ceaselessly over me, probed the darkness behind me, took note of
everything.
'Enough to compel you, Monsieur,' I replied sternly; 'but that is
not all. There are thirty dragoons coming up the hill to secure
you, and they will make you no such offer. Surrender to me
before they come, and give me your parole, and I will do all I
can for your comfort.
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