“They would follow hot after us, like hounds that smell the fox himself. The streets are dark, and this is the one quarter of Paris that may be called low and bad. They would run us down, and finish the work in the street.”
“Well, even if they do, it is better than being butchered here, like sheep. We can make a break for life.”
It required considerable urging, but she finally consented.
“For you I will try it,” she said.
She clung about his neck a moment, and it was well the anarchists were speaking excitedly in the room close at hand, else they might have heard her breathing hoarsely.
With a sob, she tore herself from him. Then she boldly opened wide the door and walked into the room.
They were astonished to see her enter by that door, and they shot a score of questions at her. She lied glibly, declaring she had gone to the cellar to see the executioner finish the spy. She said she had hidden in the cellar and watched Durant cut the throat of the helpless captive. She laughed as she told how the blood had spurted.
“Merciful Heaven!” thought the listening boy. “What a creature she is! She has nerves of steel, and a heart of iron!”
Then Durant had finished the captive in the cellar? They asked her that. Yes, the wretch was dead.
But he was not the spy; she had made a mistake. She would not believe it; she pretended to be very angry. And then Charron stepped forward, and told her of her error.