"I will answer," he said, with a hesitation and simplicity almost boyish, yet engaging in its helplessness—"if you will promise not to use my answers to my injury, and to take me all the same."
Captain George smiled good-humouredly.
"Once on the roll of the King's Musketeers," he replied, "you are amenable to none but his Majesty and your own officers. As we say ourselves, you need fear neither duke nor devil."
The other looked somewhat relieved, and glancing at Bras-de-Fer, observed timidly—
"I had a misfortune last night. It was a broil I could not avoid without great dishonour. I killed my adversary, I fear—and—and—he belongs to your company."
"So it is reported to me," answered the Captain, coolly; "and if you are capable, it may perhaps be your good fortune to find yourself promoted at last into his place."
Beaudésir looked as if he scarcely understood, and Bras-de-Fer gladly seized the opportunity to explain.
"You do not know us yet, young man. In a short time you will be better acquainted with the constitution and discipline of the Grey Musketeers. It is our study, you will find, to become the best fencers in the French army. To this end we appoint our fencing-master by competition, and he is always liable to be superseded in favour of a successful adversary. It cost Flanconnade twenty-three duels to obtain his grade, and in his last affair—(pardon—I should say his last but one) he killed his man. You, monsieur, have disposed of Flanconnade scientifically, I must admit, and our captain here is likely enough to promote you to the vacant post."
"Horror!" exclaimed Beaudésir, shuddering. "Like the priests of Aricia!"
It was now Bras-de-Fer's turn to be puzzled, but he rose to the occasion. Quaffing the remains of the Medoc, he nodded approvingly, and repeated—
"Like the priests of Aricia. The same system precisely as established by His Holiness the Pope. It works remarkably well in the Grey Musketeers."
Beaudésir looked at the Captain, and said in a low, agitated voice—
