But from the end of the corridor a confusion of voices resounded. The deliberation had evidently degenerated into disputation. Maurice could not hear distinctly what was said; some words, however, reached him, and amid these words—as if for them only the distance was short—he distinguished plainly, Spy! Poniard! Death!
Maurice redoubled his attention; a door opened, and he heard more distinctly.
"Yes," said one voice, "he is assuredly a spy; he has discovered something, and is certainly sent to take us and our secret unawares. In freeing him we run the risk of his denouncing us."
"But his word," said a voice.
"His word—he will give it only to betray us. Is he a gentleman that we should trust his word?"
Maurice ground his teeth at the idea which some folks still retained, that only a gentleman could keep his oath.
"But he does not know us; how can he denounce us?"
"No; he certainly does not know us nor our occupation, but he knows the address, and will return; next time he will be well accompanied."
This argument appeared conclusive.
"Then," said the voice which several times already had struck Maurice as belonging to the chief, "it is decided."