The Countess's eyes met her old lover's, and whether old memories
overcame her, or, now that the danger was nearly past, she began to give
way, she swayed a little on her feet. But he did not notice it. He was
sunk in black rage--rage against her, rage against himself.
"Take the light," she muttered unsteadily. "And--and he must follow!"
"And you?"
But she could bear it no longer. "Oh, go," she wailed. "Go! Will you
never go? If you love me, if you ever loved me, I implore you to go."
He had betrayed little of a lover's feeling. But he could not resist
that appeal, and he turned silently. Seizing Tuez-les-Moines by the
other arm, he drew him by force to the trap.
"Quiet, fool," he muttered savagely when the man would have resisted,
"and go down! If we stay to kill him, we shall have no way of escape,
and his life will be dearly bought. Down, man, down!" And between them,
in a struggling silence, with now and then an audible rap, or a ring of
metal, the two forced the desperado to descend.
La Tribe followed hastily. Tignonville was the last to go. In the act
of disappearing he raised his lanthorn for a last glimpse of the
Countess. To his astonishment the passage was empty; she was gone. Hard
by him a door stood an inch or two ajar, and he guessed that it was hers,
and swore under his breath, hating her at that moment. But he did not
guess how nicely she had calculated her strength; how nearly exhaustion
had overcome her; or that, even while he paused--a fatal pause had he
known it--eyeing the dark opening of the door, she lay as one dead, on
the bed within. She had fallen in a swoon, from which she did not
recover until the sun had risen, and marched across one quarter of the
heavens.
Nor did he see another thing, or he might have hastened his steps. Before
the yellow light of his lanthorn faded from the ceiling of the passage,
the door of the room farthest from the trap slid open. A man, whose
eyes, until darkness swallowed him, shone strangely in a face
extraordinarily softened, came out on tip-toe. This man stood awhile,
listening. At length, hearing those below utter a cry of dismay, he
awoke to sudden activity. He opened with a turn of the key the door
which stood at his elbow, the door which led to the other part of the
house. He vanished through it. A second later a sharp whistle pierced
the darkness of the courtyard, and brought a dozen sleepers to their
senses and their feet. A moment, and the courtyard hummed with voices,
above which one voice rang clear and insistent. With a startled cry the
inn awoke.