“No. But you will, citizen Heron,” rejoined the other dryly, “for if you do not he’ll be dead in an hour!”
“Devils in hell!” exclaimed Heron, “you have not killed him? You—you d—d fool!”
He was wide awake enough now; wide awake and shaking with fury. Almost foaming at the mouth and uttering volleys of the choicest oaths, he elbowed his way roughly through the groups of soldiers who were crowding round the centre table of the guard-room, smoking and throwing dice or playing cards. They made way for him as hurriedly as they could, for it was not safe to thwart the citizen agent when he was in a rage.
Heron walked across to the opening and lifted the iron bar. With scant ceremony he pushed his colleague aside and strode into the cell, whilst Chauvelin, seemingly not resenting the other’s ruffianly manners and violent language, followed close upon his heel.
In the centre of the room both men paused, and Heron turned with a surly growl to his friend.
“You vowed he would be dead in an hour,” he said reproachfully.
The other shrugged his shoulders.
“It does not look like it now certainly,” he said dryly.
Blakeney was sitting—as was his wont—close to the table, with one arm leaning on it, the other, tightly clenched, resting upon his knee. A ghost of a smile hovered round his lips.
“Not in an hour, citizen Heron,” he said, and his voice flow was scarce above a whisper, “nor yet in two.”