There was silence for a minute or more, the two men staring blankly at each other.
“Do they all know?”
“No one knows but me.”
“How did you learn?”
“I was at the wall near the postern gate—the little wooden gate that opens on the rose garden. I saw something crawling among the bushes. There was a knocking at the door. I opened it. It was a Christian Tartar, badly cut about with swords. He had come from the battle. Commodore Wyndham, the Englishman, had sent him. The relieving force had been checked. They had shot away most of their ammunition. They had entrenched themselves and sent back to the ships for more. Three days must pass before they could come. That was all. Mein Gott! it was enough.”
The Professor bent his shaggy grey brows.
“Where is the man?” he asked.
“He is dead. He died of loss of blood. His body lies at the postern gate.”
“And no one saw him?”
“Not to speak to.”