Could I but cut the wood away I might yet throw back the bolts with the end of my poniard. I hacked at it fiercely. It seemed hard as iron and I could tear away but a splinter at a time. At the end of half an hour I had made little progress.
I paused a moment to take breath.
“The watches are not changed till midnight,” I said, seeing Fronsac’s despairing face and that of Mademoiselle. “We have near four hours yet, my friend.”
But as I turned again to the task, a sudden clatter reached us from the hall above as of some one pounding on the tower door. I understood in an instant, and was up the stair in three bounds.
“This way, men!” shouted a hoarse voice. “This way! Rescue!”
I sprang blindly forward, groped an instant in the darkness, and dragged Roquefort back from the door, cursing my folly at leaving him unbound.
For from the court came an answering shout, a rush of feet, and the wood groaned under a great blow.
CHAPTER XIV
THE DOOR IN THE CLIFF
“Back! Back!” I cried to Fronsac, who appeared at the stair-head, bearing the torch, and I followed down close at his heels, dragging Roquefort after me, cursing and striking at me madly with his fists, but too weakened by his wound to do any great damage. In two strides we were at the bottom.
“Your scarf!” I called to Fronsac, and snatched it from him. “Now help me here,” and we twisted Roquefort’s arms behind him like a baby’s and lashed them tight together. Then I set him down on the lowest step,—a horrible sight, the blood caked in his hair and about his face, drivelling, cursing, half-conscious. I could guess what an effort it had cost him to drag himself down the stair and give the alarm, and I found myself beginning to admire him.