“Then tell us where Capet is.”
“I cannot; I wish to God I could. But I’ll take you to him, I swear I will. I’ll make my friends give him up to you. Do you think that I would not tell you now, if I could.”
Heron, whose every instinct of tyranny revolted against this thwarting of his will, would have continued to heckle the prisoner even now, had not Chauvelin suddenly interposed with an authoritative gesture.
“You’ll gain nothing this way, citizen,” he said quietly; “the man’s mind is wandering; he is probably quite unable to give you clear directions at this moment.”
“What am I to do, then?” muttered the other roughly.
“He cannot live another twenty-four hours now, and would only grow more and more helpless as time went on.”
“Unless you relax your strict regime with him.”
“And if I do we’ll only prolong this situation indefinitely; and in the meanwhile how do we know that the brat is not being spirited away out of the country?”
The prisoner, with his head once more buried in his arms, had fallen into a kind of torpor, the only kind of sleep that the exhausted system would allow. With a brutal gesture Heron shook him by the shoulder.
“He,” he shouted, “none of that, you know. We have not settled the matter of young Capet yet.”