“The odds are against you, Sir Percy,” said Chauvelin to him in English, whilst Heron at the further end of the room was growling like a contented beast.
“By the Lord, sir,” said Percy with perfect sang-froid, “I do believe that for the moment they are.”
“Have done, my men—have done!” he added, turning good-humouredly to the soldiers round him. “I never fight against overwhelming odds. Twenty to one, eh? I could lay four of you out easily enough, perhaps even six, but what then?”
But a kind of savage lust seemed to have rendered these men temporarily mad, and they were being egged on by Heron. The mysterious Englishman, about whom so many eerie tales were told! Well, he had supernatural powers, and twenty to one might be nothing to him if the devil was on his side. Therefore a blow on his forearm with the butt-end of a bayonet was useful for disabling his right hand, and soon the left arm with a dislocated shoulder hung limp by his side. Then he was bound with cords.
The vein of luck had given out. The gambler had staked more than usual and had lost; but he knew how to lose, just as he had always known how to win.
“Those d—d brutes are trussing me like a fowl,” he murmured with irrepressible gaiety at the last.
Then the wrench on his bruised arms as they were pulled roughly back by the cords caused the veil of unconsciousness to gather over his eyes.
“And Jeanne was safe, Armand,” he shouted with a last desperate effort; “those devils have lied to you and tricked you into this ... Since yesterday she is out of prison... in the house... you know....”
After that he lost consciousness.
And this occurred on Tuesday, January 21st, in the year 1794, or, in accordance with the new calendar, on the 2nd Pluviose, year II of the Republic.