“You have your pistol?”
Marguerite drew it from her broad waistbelt of gold brocade, snapped back the barrel, and set the safety catch. Her hand never shook. Now that the peril was at her elbow she could even smile. Paul took her passionately in his arms.
“You are gold all through, Marguerite,” he cried. “If this is the end, I thank you a thousand times. I would hate to have died without knowing the wonder of such rare love as yours.”
“ ‘We two embracing under death’s spread hand.’ ” She quoted from a book upon her shelf in which she was pleased to find a whole library of wisdom and inspiration.
“You will wait until the last moment?” said Paul, touching the little automatic in her hand.
“Until they are on this last flight of stairs,” she replied, in an even voice. “Paul!” She clung to him for a second, not in terror, but as to some inestimable treasure which she could hardly let go. Then she stood away, her eyes shining like the dew, her face hallowed with tenderness. “Now, my dear, go!”
Paul Ravenel ran down the stairs. The clamour echoing from the tunnel had taken on a fiercer note; the door, stout as it was, bent inwards under the blows. Marguerite, standing upon the landing, heard him unbolt the door. She drew back out of sight as a crowd of men, some in djellabas spotted with blood, some in ragged caftans, some armed with rifles, others with curved knives, others, again, with sharpened poles, swept screaming like madmen over the court.
“The Frenchman,” cried a great fellow, brandishing a butcher’s cleaver. “Give him to us! God has willed that they shall all die this day.”
What had become of Paul? she wondered. Had he been swept off his feet and trampled down in the rush? She heard his voice above the clamour. She imagined him standing with uplifted hand claiming silence. At all events, silence followed, and then his voice rang out.
“God willed that he should die yesterday,” said Paul.