He hesitated an instant, then sprang to the sill.
“That is best,” he assented. “We shall wait for you at the edge of the wood directly west of the tower. You cannot miss us. And we will wait until you come.”
He gripped my hand, caught the rope, and disappeared from the window. At the same instant I turned and darted down the stair.
At every step the pandemonium below grew in volume until it seemed that all the fiends of hell were fighting there. The pungent smell of powder assailed my nostrils, and through the darkness I caught the flash of musket and pistol and the flare of torches. But with a gasp of relief I saw that the mob had not yet gained a foothold in the room.
I sprang to one side where an angle of the wall shielded me from the bullets, and paused to look about me. The air was thick with smoke; and not until I drew quite near could I perceive Pasdeloup’s squat figure. He was standing at the head of the stair, a little to one side, his huge club raised in his hands. At that instant a shaggy head appeared and the club fell upon it, crushing it like a shell of glass. The body pitched forward quivering, and again Pasdeloup raised his club and waited, like the very god of death.
As I silently took my place beside him I perceived that the sounds from below were not all yells of rage and triumph; there were groans among them, and oaths, and screams of agony; and as the smoke lifted for an instant I saw that the stair was cumbered with bodies.
A sort of panic seized upon the mob as it discovered its own losses, and for a moment it drew back in terror before this mysterious and fearful weapon, which slew, and slew—silent, untiring. A sudden stillness fell upon them as they contemplated that bloody stair—a stillness broken only by those groans and curses. Then some one shouted a sharp command, and a cloud of black smoke puffed into our faces, and the odor of burning straw.
As I touched him on the arm, Pasdeloup, whose attention had been wholly concentrated on the stair, wheeled upon me, his club ready to strike.
“Come!” I shouted in his ear. “Come!” And I motioned to the stair behind us.
“M. le Comte,” he demanded, “where is he?”