Nic put on the overcoat. Ferrol placed the cap on his head, and muffled him up exactly as he himself had been, then made him put on his own top-boots.
“Now, see,” he said, “everything depends upon how you do this thing. You are about my height. Pass yourself off for me. Walk loose and long as I do, and cough like me as you go.”
There was no difficulty in showing him what the cough was like: he involuntarily offered an illustration as he spoke.
“As soon as I shut the door and you start forward, I’ll fire on them. That’ll divert their attention from you. They’ll take you for me, and think I’ve failed in persuading you to give yourself up. Go straight on-don’t hurry—coughing all the time; and if you can make the dark, just beyond the soldiers, by the garden bench, you’ll find two men. They’ll help you. Make for the big tree on the Seigneury road—you know: where you were robbed. There you’ll find the fastest horse from your father’s stables. Then ride, my boy, ride for your life to the State of New York!”
“And you—you?” asked Nicolas. Ferrol laughed.
“You needn’t worry about me, Nic. I’ll get out of this all right; as right as rain! Are you ready? Steady now, steady. Let me hear you cough.” Nic coughed.
“No, that isn’t it. Listen and watch.” Ferrol coughed. “Here,” he said, taking something from his pocket, “open your mouth.” He threw some pepper down the other’s throat. “Now try it.”
Nic coughed almost convulsively.
“Yes, that’s it, that’s it! Just keep that up. Come along now. Quick-not a moment to lose! Steady! You’re all right, my boy; you’ve got nerve, and that’s the thing. Good-bye, Nic, good luck to you!”
They grasped hands: the door opened swiftly, and Nic stepped outside. In an instant Ferrol was at the loophole. Raising a rifle, he fired, then again and again. Through the loophole he could see a half-dozen men lift a log to advance on the door as Nic passed a couple of officers, coughing hard, and making spasmodic motions with his hand, as though exhausted and unable to speak.