“The fair lady evidently did not lack refreshment,” he said. “I would she had had the forethought to leave us a few bottles. I am afraid,” he added, turning back to the vestibule, “that the only possible exit for us is through that door. There are no windows in this story, nor in the one above. To jump from the third story is to tempt death—or at least a multitude of broken bones. For myself, I prefer to face the enemy.”
“We might make a rope from the tapestries,” I suggested.
“They are rotten with mildew,” he objected; and indeed when we tested them we found them ready to fall to pieces at a touch. “Our situation is not so desperate,” he continued, as we climbed slowly up the stair again. “They will have to starve us out, since they have no cannon with which to batter down the wall, and that will take two or three days at the least. Many things may happen in that time.”
But though he spoke hopefully, I fancied his voice did not ring quite true. When we reached the platform he blew out the candle, placed it carefully in a crevice of the wall, then went to his wife where she stood leaning against the parapet, put an arm about her and drew her to him.
“Well?” she asked, smiling up at him.
“We are not yet out of the woods,” he said; “but, as I have just told Tavernay, there is no pressing danger. They will have to besiege us in form. Perhaps we may yet catch them napping.”
I had approached Mlle. de Chambray, drawn by an irresistible attraction—which indeed I made no effort to resist.
“What is your opinion, M. de Tavernay?” she asked, as I leaned against the wall beside her.
“I confess,” I answered gloomily, “that I see little hope of escape, unless we can sprout wings and fly away. For you, mademoiselle, that would not be so great a miracle; but I fear I am too far below the angels to hope for such deliverance.”
“It is not the angels alone who have wings,” she retorted, her face lighting with a smile. “I have heard of other spirits similarly equipped.”