“I wish Poniatowski was here—he might do something,” remarked Grothusen despondently.
“Not an angel of God could do anything,” said the chaplain, who, in common with the other clergy, found himself in the ridiculous position of rising from his knees in front of an empty chair.
“He will be massacred!” cried General Hord in despair.
“We shall all be massacred,” said Müllern. “How long do you think 300 men will resist 26,000?”
“I know,” put in Colonel Gierta, “that the King will suffer the roof to be pulled over his head sooner than surrender.”
“The Sultan may grant a respite,” suggested M. Fabrice.
But Grothusen shook his head.
“His patience has been too greatly tried—and the vizier dare not risk our presence here long.”
“But Poniatowski may do something,” urged Müllern, who had much confidence in the tireless and resourceful Pole.
The words had hardly left his lips before several shots rang out, and all started to their feet, thinking this the signal for an attack on the house.