he next world appeared to be strangely like this. I found myself lying on a straw bed in a little low attic, my head resting comfortably on some one's shoulder, while some one else poured wine down my gullet. Presently I discovered that Maître Jacques's was the ministering hand, M. Étienne's the shoulder. After all, this was not heaven, but still Paris.
I had no desire to speak so long as the flow of old Jacques's best Burgundy continued; but when he saw my eyes wide open, he stopped, and I said, my voice, to my surprise, very faint and quavery:
"What happened?"
"Dear, brave lad! You fainted!"
My lord's voice was as unsteady as mine.
"But the ladder?" I murmured.
"The ladder broke. But you had hold beyond the break. You hung on till we seized you. And then you swooned."
"What a baby!" I said, getting to my feet. "But the men, monsieur? Peyrot?"
"I think we've seen the last of those worthies. They took to their heels when you escaped them."