Again an hour passed, and the sun was rising above Montreuil, and here
and there the river began to shimmer through the fog. But in the room it
was barely daylight when the sleeper awoke, and sat up, his face
expectant. Something had roused him. He listened.
His ear, and the habit of vigilance which a life of danger instils, had
not deceived him. There were men moving in the passage; men who shuffled
their feet impatiently. Had Biron returned? Or had aught happened to
him, and were these men come to avenge him? Count Hannibal rose and
stole across the boards to the door, and, setting his ear to it,
listened.
He listened while a man might count a hundred and fifty, counting slowly.
Then, for the third part of a second, he turned his head, and his eyes
travelled the room. He stooped again and listened more closely, scarcely
breathing. There were voices as well as feet to be heard now; one
voice--he thought it was Peridol's--which held on long, now low, now
rising into violence. Others were audible at intervals, but only in a
growl or a bitter exclamation, that told of minds made up and hands which
would not be restrained. He caught his own name, _Tavannes_--the mask
was useless, then! And once a noisy movement which came to nothing,
foiled, he fancied, by Peridol.
Pages:
164
165
166
167
168
169
170
171
172
173
174
175
176
177
178
179
180
181
182
183
184
185
186
187
188