A wave of sentiment choked off Mark's reply. Again he kissed the soft hollow of that first Elaine Duchard's throat, trying the while to fight off the awful sense of futility that swept over him as he remembered history's verdict as to her fate.
Then, suddenly, the coach was halting.
"Whoa, there!" came the voice of the burly man on the box. And then: "Well, Jacques, what now? We're away from the castle, but where do we go?"
Mark swung to the ground. Glanced back to where the Chateau Morriere still loomed black and menacing on a distant ridge.
"Every road and bridge is blocked," the other went on. "The peasantry's none too peaceful in these parts, and the baron's taking no chances."
Mark nodded slowly.
"What do you think, Baroc?" he asked. Somehow, he knew that was the man's name.
The burly one scowled.
"Paris, I suppose," he grunted. "If you once get there, and into the slums, the devil himself couldn't rout you out."
"Do you think we can make it?"