Nick's decision to wait for the priests and soldiers; his refusal to help, when the automobile was ready at our call and the road deserted, had rendered me callous to the future. I remained seated at the table until the frantic yells of the approaching mob told me they had sighted the inn and expected to get news of the hated woman.
"Good-bye, Nicholas," I said, extending my hand.
He took it hesitatingly, but did not speak. Wonder and doubt as to what I intended to do were written on his face. He could not bring himself to believe that I really meant to defend Solonika against such overwhelming odds.
"Do not be foolish," he said when I turned at the foot of the stairs and put my hand in my pocket to feel the revolver there. There was no reply on my lips. Nick continued to watch me with the same curious expression. Men may have looked with pity upon the French nobles as they mounted the guillotine to surrender their heads upon the block without a murmur.
The soldiers drew rein before the inn. The car standing at the door told them they had run their quarry to earth. They shouted aloud as if they knew the victory was theirs. I heard the officers give their orders; the tavern was speedily surrounded. Then came an awful knock upon the door and a loud voice in bull-like tones demanding entrance. With a last look at me, Nick arose from his chair and opened the door, permitting the soldiers to pour into the room.
As I expected, the first man to enter was the outraged Patriarch. He was still uttering at intervals his Bharbazonian cry of "Sacrilege." His black robe was torn by hard riding and covered with dust. He was like a madman—his eyes glaring, his fingers clutching—as he sprang into the light. Pressing close behind were most of the black clergy who officiated within the chancel. They were loud in their cries and horrible in their expression of mediæval hatred. Within their souls was one thought and that was kill—kill—kill! How much like those who erected the cross on Calvary, nineteen hundred years ago, were these deluded men. How little had they learned of the spirit of their Master, the Prince of Peace.
It was small wonder, under the influence of such teaching, that the soldiers, who pressed into the inn, were wrought up into a similar religious frenzy. There was no pity even in the face of the colonel in charge. The innkeeper and his serving men and women, aroused by the fearful din, appeared upon the landing above in night robes. They lent their excited voices to the uproar. As soon as the Patriarch saw the landlord he called to him in French:
"Where is she—this woman?"
"What woman, your Reverence?" cried the bewildered Marchaud.
"She who fled hither in that devil car?"