“It is he!” she whispered again. “Our fate is hanging in the scales”—
A shot was heard, which made the window-panes rattle, and cut her short. She was seized with spasms from head to foot, but, making a great effort, she cried out,—
“Free at last, Daniel; we are free!”
And, rushing to the door, she opened it.
She opened it, but instantly shut it again violently, and uttered a terrible cry.
On the threshold stood Count Ville-Handry, his features terribly distorted, a smoking revolver in his hand.
“No,” he said, “Sarah, no, you are not free!”
Livid, and with eyeballs starting from their sockets, the wretched woman had shrunk back to a door which opened from the dining-room directly into her chamber.
She was not despairing yet.
It was evident she was looking for one of those almost incredible excuses which are sometimes accepted by credulous old men when violent passions seize them in their dotage.