The voice!—where had I heard it? I stared up at him! I could have sworn there was white hate in the look he bent upon his master.
“And the third turn, Briquet?” urged Roquefort.
“The third turn will render the dislocations permanent by tearing away the gristle which binds bone to bone—ball to socket.”
I felt my heart grow cold with terror. Had God a hell to fit such devils? Yet other men had borne it—day after day they had borne it and still smiled. Well, I would bear it too!
“So you will not speak?” asked Roquefort reading my defiance in my eyes. “As you will. Only, I warn you, you are playing the fool, M. de Marsan,” and he turned to give the signal to the men at the wheel.
But the signal was not given. Even as he turned, the outer door was flung back and hurrying feet dashed into the chamber and across it towards us. Every one stared, astounded, to see who this might be that set at naught Roquefort’s orders. Not until they came full within the circle of light from the torches could I see them—and how my heart leaped, for I looked up into Claire’s eyes, and back of her saw Brissac’s anxious face.
“We are in time,” she said in a voice almost a whisper. “Thank God! Loose that wheel, you scoundrels!”
Mechanically, without thinking from whom the order came, they permitted the wheel to spin back. What a blessed relief it was!
Then she turned to Roquefort with blazing eyes.
“You are a brute—a monster!” she cried. “Oh, I did well to think twice before taking you for a husband!”