Prisoners of Chance

"So it is you, you miserable, drunken reprobate!" he exclaimed, a touch of temper tingling in a voice I felt must naturally be soft and low. "Have you dared come back to pester me with your abominable consolations? Sacre! did I not bid you this afternoon to let me alone? I care nothing for your tipsy paternosters. Faith, man, it will be pleasanter to face that firing squad to-morrow than your drunken prayers to-night. Come, get out of the room before I lay unregenerate hands upon your shaven poll. I am but giving you fair warning, priest, for I am quick of blow when my blood is heated, nor care I greatly for the curses of Mother Church."

I stepped quickly forward, coming as directly before him as the great sea-chest would permit, fearful lest his loud words might be distinguishable beyond the closed door. Then, with silent gesture of warning, I flung aside the heavy cowl which had concealed my features.

"You, I presume, are Charles de Noyan," I said gravely. "I am not Father Cassati, nor drunken priest of any Order of Holy Church."

The prisoner was thoroughly astounded. This I could perceive by the sudden gleam leaping into his eyes, but that he retained marvellous control over every muscle was abundantly proven by the fact that no change of attitude, or of voice, gave slightest evidence of emotion.

"Well, Mother of God preserve me!" he exclaimed, with a short, reckless laugh. "'Tis some small comfort to know even that much. Yet may I politely inquire who the devil you are, to invade thus coolly the bedchamber of a gentleman, without so much as asking leave, at this unholy hour of the morning? Pardieu, man, are you aware that this is the last night on earth I have?"

He was staring at me through blue rings of tobacco smoke, very much as one might observe some peculiar animal seen for the first time.

"Had it been otherwise you might rest assured I should never have troubled you," I replied, some constraint in my voice, his boyish bravado of speech rasping harshly upon my nerves. "But time presses, Chevalier; there remains small space for useless exchange of compliment, nor does indifference appear becoming to those in such grave peril as you and I."

"Sacre! are you also one of us? Surely, I have no recollection of your face."

"I am one in so far as I now face the same fate at the hands of the Spaniards, although, it is true, I had no part in your uprising. I am not of your race."

He laughed easily, passing one slender, white hand carelessly through his long hair.