"Not quite so far," replied he, gruffly.
My unexpected interview with Jacqueline, her coolness, her general bearing, had all bewildered me, and painfully wounded my self-esteem and pride, crushing my old love, and creating an emotion that wavered between wonder and—shall I term it so?—disgust. She had proved so cold-blooded, so—but enough of Jacqueline; let me to my story, or we shall never make an end.
Again I asked my guides whither they were conveying me, and their object?
"Beelzebub!" muttered the corporal; "how impatient you are. You will find out too soon, perhaps. Karl, are we a mile from the schloss yet?"
"Scarcely," grumbled Karsseboom, looking back.
I recalled the whispered order of Bourgneuf, and the terrible conviction came upon me that I was to be conducted to the distance of a mile or so, where the sound of firing might not disturb the countess—to be there shot and buried in the snow!
Thus did a keen sense of danger supply the wanting words.
What was I to do—unarmed, weak, weary, and powerless? I could grapple with neither of my guards without the risk of being shot by the other; and to be led out thus—I, an officer on parole, a prisoner of war, protected by the promise of the Duc de Broglie—led out to be butchered by two unscrupulous ruffians, and without a struggle—the thought was too dreadful for contemplation.
But such was the intended sequel to that night's adventures.
Halting close to a thicket about a mile distant from the schloss, the irregular outline of which was clearly defined against the starry sky, the corporal told me to "stand still, or march ten paces forward, and then turn round."