“How am I to trust you?” came back a whisper from the bed.
“Here is a revolver! Take it and kill me if I attempt the slightest injury. Where are you?” He felt along the bed with his hand.
“Keep away! Please! Please!” she sobbed.
“Take the pistol! Be calm, and in heaven's name help me to save her. Those wretches may have killed her already!”
The revolver dropped upon the clothes. He was bending eagerly over, holding the curtains back.
“My friend is in the hall. We have traced the men to the Princess's door, I think. My God, be quick! Do you wish to see her stolen from under your eyes?”
“You are now in the Princess's room,” answered the voice from the bed, calmer and with some alacrity. “Is this true that you tell me?”
“As God is my witness! And you—you—are you the Princess?” gasped the man, drawing back.
“I am. Where is Dannox?” She was sitting bolt upright in the bed, the pistol in her trembling fingers.
“He is one of the conspirators. One of the cooks and two other guards are in the plot. Can you trust me enough to leave your bed and hide in another part of the room? The scoundrels have mistaken the door, but they may be here at any moment. You must be quick! I will protect you—I swear it! Come, your Highness! Hide!”