Lucille's tears came fast. They stood listening. From the staircase rose loud rough voices, alternating with Ivor's not loud but masterful tones. That he was a prisoner, and that they had power to arrest him too, if they chose, made not a grain of difference in his bearing. It was not defiant or excited, but undoubtedly it was haughty; and Lucille, just able to see him where she stood, found herself wondering—did he wish to go to prison too with Roy? She could almost have believed it.
"Eh bien, Messieurs; since l'Empéreur sees fit to war with schoolboys, so be it," she heard him say sternly, in his polished French. "To me, as an Englishman, it appears that his Majesty might find a foe more worthy of his prowess."
"But, ah! why make them angry?" murmured Lucille.
A few more words, and Denham came back. One look at his face made questions almost needless.
"Then I am to go, Den?"
"I fear—no help for it. The men have authority. You will have to spend to-night in the citadel. But I am coming with you, and I shall insist upon seeing Wirion himself."
"But you—you cannot—you are ill," remonstrated Lucille. "Will not Colonel Baron go—not you?"
He put aside the objection as unimportant.
"Roy must take a few things with him, not more than he can carry himself. I hope it may be only for the one night. They allow us twenty minutes. That is a concession."
"I will put his things together for him," said Lucille quickly. "I can choose what he will most need."