"At last!" said Burton, half in relief, half in misgiving. The old men started up, and grasped each a revolver. The lady put down her book and clasped her hands on her lap, pressing her lips together as if to shut in a cry.
"Who is there?" demanded Burton in French.
"Where is Major Schwikkard?" came the answer. An officer was speaking.
Burton saw that further concealment was useless.
"He is here," he called down the passage, "a prisoner."
The German swore.
"You dogs! You imbeciles!" he shouted, shaking the door. "Let me in. What do you mean by this buffoonery? If it is your trick, you white-headed old fool, you shan't escape hanging because you were once a soldier. You and your man are civilians in arms. You shall die by inches. Let me in, I say."
There was no reply. The officer shook the door again.
"Force it with your shoulder, Vossling," he said with an oath.
The door creaked, but the lock held. Next moment there was a crash; he had blown in the lock with a shot from his revolver. But the door banged against the wardrobe placed behind it. The German swore again. Then there was silence. In a few minutes, several voices were heard.