Blindly I bent and kissed the red lips still raised to mine, put away the clinging hands—with what aching of the heart may be imagined—and followed M. le Comte without daring to look back. Down we flew, half smothered by the fumes of sulphur and clouds of dust—down into that black pit which yawned to swallow us—one flight, two—then M. le Comte held me back.
“Wait,” he said—“wait;” and he descended cautiously some few steps. He was back beside me in a moment. “They have made a breach,” he said. “I could see the glint of their torches through it. But they must clear away the debris before they can enter. We have perhaps five minutes.”
“We can hold the stair.” I said. “It is steep and narrow. Two swords can keep an army back.”
“But once they gain entrance below us they can burn us out. No, we must escape, Tavernay—or make a dash for it. Better death by the sword than by fire.”
“And the women?”
“For them,” he said with set teeth, “the same death as for us—it is the only way. For me, my wife; for you, Charlotte. Are you brave enough to thrust your sword into her heart, my friend?”
A cold sweat broke out upon me, head to foot.
“God in heaven, no!” I cried, hoarsely. “Not that—anything but that!”
“As for me,” said my companion, with a terrible calmness, “I prefer to kill my wife rather than abandon her to the mercies of Goujon. Come, Tavernay, be a man! You love her and yet you hesitate!”
“Love her! Oh, God!” I groaned.