CHAPTER XVII.
THE DUNGEON OF PORTILLAC.
The desperadoes were as much astonished as was De Catinat when they found that they had recaptured in this extraordinary manner the messenger whom they had given up for lost.

A volley of oaths and exclamations broke from them, as, on tearing off the huge red coat of the coachman, they disclosed the sombre dress of the young American.
"A thousand thunders!" cried one.

"And this is the man whom that devil's brat Latour would make out to be dead!" "And how came he here ?" "And where is Etienne Arnaud ?" "He has stabbed Etienne.

See the great cut in the coat!" "Ay; and see the colour of his hand! He has stabbed him, and taken his coat and hat." "What! while we were all within stone's cast!" "Ay; there is no other way out of it." "By my soul!" cried old Despard, "I had never much love for old Etienne, but I have emptied a cup of wine with him before now, and I shall see that he has justice.

Let us cast these reins round the fellow's neck and hang him upon this tree." Several pairs of hands were already unbuckling the harness of the dead horse, when De Vivonne pushed his way into the little group, and with a few curt words checked their intended violence.
"It is as much as your lives are worth to touch him," said he.
"But he has slain Etienne Arnaud." "That score may be settled afterwards.