"So be it," Andrew replied. "It is best. There can be no other chance. I will go prepare the peasant. Be ready, I pray you, when I return." And, pointing out of the window of the room, to which he had stepped, he said, "See, madame, the mist and fog are gone, the stars shine forth--it will not be so dark and terrible. And, as I have said, it is nothing. From the roof you will glide swiftly across the gap--'tis not far--a moment later you will be drawn up. Courage! Courage! I go to prepare Laurent," and he turned towards the door.
"I must be muffled, blindfolded," she whispered, "then I shall be brave. But, if I saw what is below, my courage would fail--I should draw back at the last moment."
"It shall be so," Andrew said, removing the last objection she was likely to make. "I will muffle you." Then a thought struck him suddenly, and he said, "there is a woman attends to you. Where is she?"
"In heaven's mercy away for the night. Her father, an old man, is ill at Gerardmer hard by; she has gone to him. She will return at daybreak. Oh!" she added, "you do not know how I am watched. When I tell Philip all he will weep for me."
"'Tis well she is away," Andrew replied, ignoring the latter part of her remarks. "To-morrow she may return, and welcome. The bird will be flown. Again I say, courage, madame. Courage, and be ready at my return. 'Twill be immediate."
Swiftly he passed to the garret and, from it, to the roof, lighting his lanthorn for an instant, so as to avoid the shaft beneath the ladder that mounted to the leads; then, having drawn on his boots once more, he climbed up and stood again upon the roof. As he had said, the fog and mist were gone now, the wind had changed and blown them both away, the stars were shining brightly above; across the chasm he could see dimly the trunk of the tree round which the further end of the rope had been wound by him and Laurent.
The night, too, was very still, nothing broke the silence--or only one thing. Far off as yet, though drawing nearer every moment, it seemed to his trained ears as though there was the sound of a horse's hoofs beating with regularity upon some road. Yet, he remembered, there was but one road near of which he knew; the road from Remiremont to Bois-le-Vaux. He must be mistaken! It was some other sound which, in the stillness of the night, resembled that made by a swift oncoming horse.
He whistled once, gently, yet loud and clear enough to reach the watcher on the other side; but no reply came. And again he whistled soft and low, but still the result was the same.
"Heavens!" he muttered, under his breath. "To sleep at such a time!" And, having arrived by now at the great chimney to which he had attached his end of the rope, he grasped at and jerked it violently so as either to arouse Laurent--if he was in truth asleep--or to attract his attention if awake.
As he did so, his hair seemed to stand on his head in horror!