“Capet? where is Capet?” reiterated Heron impatiently.
“One—two—three hundred leagues from here. I must let one of my friends know; he’ll communicate with the others; they must be prepared,” replied the prisoner slowly.
Heron uttered a blasphemous oath.
“Where is Capet? Tell us where Capet is, or—”
He was like a raging tiger that had thought to hold its prey and suddenly realised that it was being snatched from him. He raised his fist, and without doubt the next moment he would have silenced forever the lips that held the precious secret, but Chauvelin fortunately was quick enough to seize his wrist.
“Have a care, citizen,” he said peremptorily; “have a care! You called me a fool just now when you thought I had killed the prisoner. It is his secret we want first; his death can follow afterwards.”
“Yes, but not in this d—d hole,” murmured Blakeney.
“On the guillotine if you’ll speak,” cried Heron, whose exasperation was getting the better of his self-interest, “but if you’ll not speak then it shall be starvation in this hole—yes, starvation,” he growled, showing a row of large and uneven teeth like those of some mongrel cur, “for I’ll have that door walled in to-night, and not another living soul shall cross this threshold again until your flesh has rotted on your bones and the rats have had their fill of you.”
The prisoner raised his head slowly, a shiver shook him as if caused by ague, and his eyes, that appeared almost sightless, now looked with a strange glance of horror on his enemy.
“I’ll die in the open,” he whispered, “not in this d—d hole.”