recognized his sardonic smile; then, on the steps of the corkscrew
staircase, he saw Cornelius, his sister, and behind them the provost
guard. At that sight, and observing the diabolical faces expressing
either hatred or curiosity of persons whose business it was to hang
others, the so-called Philippe Goulenoire sat up on his pallet and
rubbed his eyes.

"Mort-Dieu!" he cried, seizing his dagger, which was under the pillow.
"Now is the time to play our knives."

"Ho, ho!" cried Tristan, "that's the speech of a noble. Methinks I see
Georges d'Estouteville, the nephew of the grand master of the archers."

Hearing his real name uttered by Tristan, young d'Estouteville thought
less of himself than of the dangers his recognition would bring upon
his unfortunate mistress. To avert suspicion he cried out:--

"Ventre-Mahom! help, help to me, comrades!"

After that outcry, made by a man who was really in despair, the young
courtier gave a bound, dagger in hand, and reached the landing. But
the myrmidons of the grand provost were accustomed to such
proceedings. When Georges d'Estouteville reached the stairs they
seized him dexterously, not surprised by the vigorous thrust he made
at them with his dagger, the blade of which fortunately slipped on the
corselet of a guard; then, having disarmed him, they bound his hands,
and threw him on the pallet before their leader, who stood motionless
and thoughtful.

Tristan looked silently at the prisoner's hands, then he said to