“Where are you going?”
“Yes, where are you going, Christian?” cried M. Goefle, hurrying after him. “Do not go out alone!”
“I am not going out,” answered Christian, slipping rapidly out of the bear-room; “I am going to see whether the second door, that opening on the court, is fastened.”
“What is he doing?” said Margaret to M. Goefle; “are you not afraid?—”
“No, no,” answered the lawyer; “he promised to be prudent.”
“But I hear him drawing the bolts of the second door; he is opening them!”
“He is opening them? Oh, then, our friends have come!”
“No, no! he is going out. I am certain of it!”
And Margaret started up involuntarily, as if to follow Christian. M. Goefle stopped her, and, making a sign to Peterson not to leave the women, he tried to pursue him himself. But Christian had already fastened the outer door, so as to prevent this very thing, and was running towards the main entrance of the court, calling Larrson in a loud voice, and holding himself on guard, in case he should be attacked by the assassins. Suddenly a ball, aimed at him, struck the lantern he was holding out of his hand, and left him enveloped in the white darkness, which the light of the moon could not penetrate, and which was clinging like a shroud to the earth.
At the sound of the pistol-shot a terrible oath escaped M. Goefle, who was excessively alarmed about his young friend: Martina uttered a cry; Margaret sank into a chair, and Peterson ran up to the lawyer. By their united efforts they might have succeeded in opening the door, but they did not understand each other. Peterson, who was devoted to his young mistress, was thinking only of preventing the malefactors from entering, and did not suspect that M. Goefle, on the contrary, wanted it thrown open, so as to fly to Christian’s assistance.