"O my love! O my love!"
The blows beat upward against the hatch and ceased. He sprang erect, slid an arm around her and dragged her back—not a second too soon. A gun exploded against the hinges at their feet, blowing one loose. John saw the crevice gaping and the muzzle of a gun pushed through to prise it open. He leaped upon the hatch, pistol in hand.
"Forty-sixth! Forty-sixth!"
What was that? Through the open crevice a British cheer answered him. The man levering against his weight lost hold of the gun, leaving it jammed. John heard the slide and thud of his fall.
"Hallo!" hailed a cheerful voice from the foot of the ladder. "You there!—open the trap-way and show us some light!"
John knelt, slipped back the bolt, and turned to Diane. She had fallen on her knees—but what had happened to her? She was cowering before the joy in his face, shrinking away from him and yet beseeching.
"Le pistolet—donne-moi le pistolet!"—her voice hissed on the word, her eyes petitioned him desperately. "Ah, de grace! tu n'a pas le droit—"
He understood. With a passing bitter laugh he turned from her entreaties and hurled the pistol across the battlements into air. A hand flung open the hatch. A British officer—Etherington, Major of the Forty-sixth—pushed his head and shoulders through he opening and stared across the leads, panting, with triumphant jolly face.