The capture of the audacious plotter would be the finest leaf in Citoyen Chauvelin’s wreath of glory. Caught, red-handed, on the spot, in the very act of aiding and abetting the traitors against the Republic of France, the Englishman could claim no protection from his own country. Chauvelin had, in any case, fully made up his mind that all intervention should come too late.
Never for a moment did the slightest remorse enter his heart, as to the terrible position in which he had placed the unfortunate wife, who had unconsciously betrayed her husband. As a matter of fact, Chauvelin had ceased even to think of her: she had been a useful tool, that was all.
The Jew’s lean nag did little more than walk. She was going along at a slow jog trot, and her driver had to give her long and frequent halts.
“Are we a long way yet from Miquelon?” asked Chauvelin from time to time.
“Not very far, your Honour,” was the uniform placid reply.
“We have not yet come across your friend and mine, lying in a heap in the roadway,” was Chauvelin’s sarcastic comment.
“Patience, noble Excellency,” rejoined the son of Moses, “they are ahead of us. I can see the imprint of the cart wheels, driven by that traitor, that son of the Amalekite.”
“You are sure of the road?”
“As sure as I am of the presence of those ten gold pieces in the noble Excellency’s pockets, which I trust will presently be mine.”
“As soon as I have shaken hands with my friend the tall stranger, they will certainly be yours.”