“Then die!”
“Not yet!”
Crack—a stone descended on the head of Emile Durant, and the little ruffian dropped in a senseless heap, struck down by the woman of the mask.
She flung aside the stone, which she had found in the cellar, and with which she had crept cat-like behind Durant.
“Now,” she panted, dropping beside Frank Merriwell, “I have become a traitor to save you—all because I like your boldness. What a fool I am.”
She cut his bonds, and set him free.
Those cords had cut into the boy’s flesh so that circulation of the blood had been arrested, and he found himself benumbed, although free.
Mademoiselle Mystere had dragged the unconscious Durant from the lad, across whose legs the anarchist had fallen. The little wretch lay upon the ground, and the light from the lamp shone athwart his evil face. The jaw had fallen, and the thin lips still exposed those wolfish teeth. The little mustache, coal-black in color, curled down around the corners of his cruel mouth. His eyes were closed, but there was a sneer on his face. Across one temple was a streak of blood.
After a little, Frank sat up and looked down at that face. Truly it was the face of one who would delight in riot and ruin, who would revel in burning and bloodshed, who would tear out his very life to overthrow the existing order of things.
Merriwell felt that it was little short of a marvel that Durant, who had come there to slay a helpless spy, now lay senseless on the ground, while the supposed spy was free from the cords that had held him like bands of iron.