I shook my head and pointed with my free hand to my bound wrist and ankle.
In an instant the figure had dropped to its knees beside me. I felt swift fingers lightly examining the ropes, I caught the gleam of a knife, and my bonds fell from me.
“Now, follow me, Monsieur,” whispered the voice.
For the moment I forgot everything but the joy of being with her—the joy of holding her hand again and whispering in her ear. I got cautiously to my knees, to my feet, and stole down the room after her. A shower of ashes threw the place into sudden light and sent my heart into my throat, but none of the sleepers stirred. She paused in the shadow of the farthest corner until I had reached her side.
“There, M. de Marsan,” she whispered, “is a door through which, I think, you may escape. You see I am not ungrateful.”
“Ungrateful!” I repeated, hoarsely, and caught her hand.
“You must go, Monsieur,” she protested. “Even a moment’s loitering here may mean recapture.”
“But I am going to risk that moment. Mademoiselle,” I said. “You see that my words have proved true and that we have met again; only, this afternoon, I thought you had forgot me.”
“Oh, no, M. de Marsan,” she breathed, “I had not forgot you, nor am I like to do so. Only I knew I could not help you did any one suspect me for your friend. But you must go—hasten!”
“And you?” I asked.