"Marville! Marville," he roared. "Look to yourself. They're here."
As he spoke quick footsteps came clattering over the pavement of the Rue Grande, and the ping-ping of carbine shots rang out on the night-air. The bullets were intended for the Captain, but missed their mark; and the mare taking fright at the report set off at a gallop, followed by the pursuers, who were on foot.
"Halt!" shouted an authoritative voice. "Let the car go; that's not the quarry. Our man's in here; this is his wife's abode. Through the house, two of you, and guard the rear. Two of you watch the front. Leave the rest to me. I'll unearth him."
The man who gave these commands rushed through the doorway of the harbour-master's dwelling, and, as if guided by instinct, neglected the lower storey and made his way up the staircase.
All this took place so quickly that Marville was for the moment paralyzed with surprise, and stood motionless and silent, with his scared wife clinging to him.
"Don't make any resistance, Eric, dearest," she pleaded. "It will be better not."
Springing from his lethargy Marville put aside the arms of his wife and made for the open window, only to perceive two watchful gendarmes in the street below, who instantly levelled their carbines at sight of the convict's face.
The only other outlet from the room was through the doorway: but there, framed within the entrance and pistol in hand, stood a grey-haired, fine looking veteran, clad in military uniform, Duclair, governor of the prison, who, alive to his responsibility, had himself joined in the chase.
"Run to earth," he said, with a grim smile. "You're fairly cornered. It's no use resisting."
"We'll see about that," muttered Marville, pulling forth a revolver—a recent gift of Rochefort's—with the intention of forcing his way over the disabled or dead body of the governor.