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Weyman, Stanley John, 1855-1928

"Count Hannibal A Romance of the Court of France"

Then "Courage!" he panted, "all goes well!" and, carrying
his boots in his hands, he led the way, stepping gingerly from joist to
joist until he reached the tie-beam. He climbed on it, and, squeezing
himself between the struts, entered a second loft, similar to the first.
At the farther end of this a rough wall of bricks in a timber-frame
lowered his hopes; but as he approached it, joy! Low down in the corner
where the roof descended, a small door, square, and not more than two
feet high, disclosed itself.
The two crept to it on hands and knees and listened. "It will lead to
the leads, I doubt?" La Tribe whispered. They dared not raise their
voices.
"As well that way as another!" Tignonville answered recklessly. He was
the more eager, for there is a fear which transcends the fear of death.
His eyes shone through the mask of dust, the sweat ran down to his chin,
his breath came and went noisily. "Naught matters if we can escape him!"
he panted. And he pushed the door recklessly. It flew open; the two
drew back their faces with a cry of alarm.
They were looking, not into the sunlight, but into a grey dingy garret
open to the roof, and occupying the upper part of a gable-end somewhat
higher than the wing in which they had been confined. Filthy truckle-
beds and ragged pallets covered the floor, and, eked out by old saddles
and threadbare horserugs, marked the sleeping quarters either of the
servants or of travellers of the meaner sort.


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