"Unlock the door," he said to the man, one of the local milice, who was appointed to sit outside on guard over the prisoner within. "Open. You know me, do you not?"
"Yes, monseigneur, I know you," the soldier said, springing to his feet and preparing to do as he was bidden. "Yet will monseigneur venture within? The man is, they say, a dangerous----"
"Bah! Open."
And a moment later the Intendant was gazing down upon him whom he had denounced to the law, the man for whose trial, a few hours later, he had already issued orders and summoned the judges.
Upon a low pallet Martin Ashurst lay sleeping as peacefully as though in his own bed in his far-distant home, nor was he disturbed by the grating of the key in the lock nor by the entrance of Baville. He had slept but little for some nights past, and his long rides and exertions had worn him out at last.
Gazing down upon him, observing the fair hair and handsome features of his victim, Baville knew that here was no guilty man capable of betraying a young and helpless girl to her death. The calm and peaceful figure beneath him could scarce be that of one who would descend to such villainies. Murderers of the young and innocent looked not so innocent themselves! And if any confirmation of his thoughts were needed, he had it now. Upon Martin's face there came a soft smile; his lips parted and he murmured the name of Urbaine.
"Urbaine!" he whispered. "Urbaine! My love!"
Had an adder stung the Intendant standing there, or the lightning stroke blasted him, neither could have been more terrible. His love! His love! His love! Therefore he must have spoken truth when he said that she was well, was happy.
"God help me," Baville muttered. "Have pity on me."
Even as he did so, Martin's eyes opened and he saw his enemy, his captor, looking down upon him.