course, made that act of donation in writing.”
Mordaunt stopped short.
“He has given you some little writing for me — the least bit of paper which may show that you come in his name. Be pleased to give me that scrap of paper so that I may justify, by a pretext at least, my abandoning my countrymen. Otherwise, you see, although I am sure that General Oliver Cromwell can intend them no harm, it would have a bad appearance.”
Mordaunt recoiled; he felt the blow and discharged a terrible look at D’Artagnan, who responded by the most amiable expression that ever graced a human countenance.
“When I tell you a thing, sir,” said Mordaunt, “you insult me by doubting it.”