“It could not well be more so.”
“My friend,” she whispered, still more softly, “tell me that you forgive me——”
From the garden came the shrill cry of an owl, thrice repeated.
“Too late!” I groaned. “Too late!”
We were at M. le Comte’s door. Pasdeloup was leaning against the wall, his arms folded, his face very grim. My companion shrank back with a little gasp of dismay at sight of him.
“He is a friend,” I said. “Where is M. le Comte?”
As though in answer to the question, the door opened and M. le Comte appeared on the threshold, his wife at his side.
“We are too late!” I cried. “The signal has been given—the sentries are closing in. A moment more——”
A great crash echoed through the house, a sound of breaking glass, a clamor of muskets beating against door and shutter.
“To the tower!” cried M. le Comte. “This way!”