“What is this?” cried a deep voice from the door. “Fighting among yourselves? God! But some head shall suffer!”
I recognized the voice and got slowly to my feet, as Roquefort strode into the light cast by the fire. I looked at him in amazement, for his eyes were bloodshot, his face haggard, his clothing stained with mud. Plainly, M. le Comte had given him a warm argument, and he had been hard put to it to shake him off.
“It was no quarrel, M. le Duc,” explained Drouet, “nothing but this fellow trying to escape.”
“To escape!” cried Roquefort. “Do you tell me that you left a door for his escape, Drouet? You value that neck of yours but lightly, then!”
“I bound him to me hand and foot, Monsieur,” said Drouet humbly. “You know I am not a heavy sleeper. How he got loose without awakening me I cannot imagine.”
He went to the spot where we had lain and picked up the pieces of rope. A sharp cry escaped him as he looked at them.
“Well?” asked Roquefort angrily. “What new surprise?”
“See, Monsieur,” cried Drouet, holding out the rope-ends. “He did not get loose of himself. Some one came, cut the ropes, and freed him.”
For a moment Roquefort gazed at the ropes without speaking, but his face, when he raised it to mine, was terrible.
“A traitor!” he said. “A traitor here!” and he looked about him with eyes that sent a shiver through his men. “Oh, but some one shall pay for this! You shall tell us, Monsieur, who it was that cut your bonds and then you will have a companion on the rack. What a death! I could find it in my heart to pity you, Monsieur, did I not hate you so!”