With a sigh Loris thrust his revolver back into his belt,—none of us had fired a shot,—and strode back to the door of the synagogue.
From within we could hear, now that the din had ceased, the wailing of frightened children, the weeping of women.
Loris drew his revolver again and beat on the door with the butt.
“Open within there!” he cried. “All is safe, and we are friends.”
“Who are you? Give the name, or the word,” came the answer, in a woman’s voice; a voice that I knew well.
“Open, Anna; à la vie et à la mort!” he called.
A queer dizziness seized me as I listened. She was within, then; in another minute I should meet her. But how could I hope that she would have a word, a glance, to spare for me, when he was there. I could not even feel jealous of him; he was so far above me in every way. For me there must still be only “the page’s part,” while he was the king, and she the queen.
There were lumbering noises within, as of heavy goods being moved; but at last the door swung back, and there on the threshold, with her hands outstretched, stood Anne Pendennis.