“Malvoisin,” said Bois-Guilbert, “thou art a cold-blooded⁠—”

“Friend,” said the Preceptor, hastening to fill up the blank, in which Bois-Guilbert would probably have placed a worse word⁠—“a cold-blooded friend I am, and therefore more fit to give thee advice. I tell thee once more, that thou canst not save Rebecca. I tell thee once more, thou canst but perish with her. Go hie thee to the Grand Master⁠—throw thyself at his feet and tell him⁠—”

“Not at his feet, by Heaven! but to the dotard’s very beard will I say⁠—”