“Where is that foreigner?” continued the captain. “Isn’t he coming out?”
“He is wounded,” said Sonya.
“Here—men!” he roared. “Up with you and get him!”
As half a dozen of the gendarmes lunged in, Drexel saw Sonya deftly knock over the hallway’s single lamp. It went out as it fell, and the hall was darkness, save for the faint light that the snow caught from the lurid blaze and threw in at the door. Drexel now had an inkling of what was in Sonya’s mind: there was no chance for her, but for him there was a fighting chance, and that chance she was striving to give him.
As the men rushed up the stairway, swearing as they stumbled over dead comrades, Drexel flattened himself against the wall. Though the fire roared in the farther room, this room was black, and on this blackness hung his chance. The men surged through the door. With high-beating heart Drexel stepped forth and mixed among them.
They did not note that they had been joined by another man. They cursed the blackness and sought their wounded prey by kicking about the floor. None kicked more ruthlessly than Drexel.
“He’s not in here,” growled one of the men.
“Let him roast—that’s as good as killing,” said another. “I’m not going to stay in here. It’s too hot and smoky for me.”
“And for me,” growled Drexel, coughing. “I’m going.”
He walked out and started down the stairs, the other complainant at his heels. “One of you bring up a lantern,” was shouted after them.