The Prince's coach meanwhile had lagged behind the others at a point where the road cut through a small gorge. His Excellency was giving the ladies an account and history of the Chevalier's wounds, when in the middle of it the horses stopped with a jerk. A commotion without any words appeared to be going on outside. The Prince put his head out and found himself looking into the barrels of a horse-pistol, while a masked man of heavy build summoned him to be quiet. He saw moreover nine or ten half-naked fellows also disguised in rude masks, posted about, with muskets and pistols pointed at the grooms and himself. The Princess fell in a faint. The Abbé threw himself under the seat. Such scenes were being enacted every day on the highroads in that lumbering old handmade century.
The head of the man who had charge of the Prince was, as it were, thatched with a torn hat and his black hair straggled past his mask in tufts down to his shoulders.
"Purses!" he growled harshly, putting his head in at the window.
"Cut-throat!" cried the Prince. "You shall swing for this as sure as there is a Lieutenant of Police in Paris."
The big man's answer was a ferocious "Enough!"
And as his black finger twitched threateningly upon the trigger, Cyrène laid her restraining hand on her cousin's arm. She took out her purse with her other hand and passed it to the man. She promptly also pulled out that of the Princess. The Prince handed his own to her and it was passed over with that of his wife.
With the same coolness she passed these likewise.
He scowled next at the brooch Cyrène wore at her neck.
"Give me that," he commanded. She stopped and said firmly--
With a momentary impatience she tore it off.
"Consult thy best interests and go," she said in a stern voice.
He did not lack the necessary quickness of judgment, and signed to his mates who retreated into the woods, keeping the lackeys well covered with their firearms.
"My ladies and my Lord," said the big man, still holding his pistol aimed at the Prince. "We levy this tax in _the name of the King_." That is what you say when you steal from us, the people. "We commend you the consolation of your formula."
Having made this singular speech, to the infinite fury of the Prince, who would have drawn his sword and leaped out at him had it not been for Cyrène, he retired backward into the forest.