She made a little exclamation, and we were both silent for a long while.
“It is a pity,” she said bitterly, “to be born a woman.”
Something in her tone touched me deeply.
“You wrong me,” I said, in a low tone; “if you will but trust me, all may yet be well. Will you trust me, Princess Daria?”
I heard her breath come hard again, and there was a pause, brief but big with doubt.
“I do trust you, monsieur,” she replied, but I knew it cost her an effort. “I have already trusted you!”
An answer from my heart sprang to my lips, a rush of passionate desire to win her confidence, but I had no time to voice it. Quite suddenly there was an outburst of voices outside the cellar door, steps on the stone stair, and men battering on the door with such force that it shook. There was no time to reach the other entrance, and it offered no safe retreat, neither had I time to think; I sprang up and caught the princess in my arms and made my way back, among the wine-butts. She was a woman of such spirit that she made no outcry or struggle, and we were both silent. We heard them place a ram against the door and the shout went up to force it.
I reached the empty butts, in the corner, and lifted her into one, whispering to her to crouch low, and then I climbed into another, beside it, just as the door fell inward with a crash, and the red flare of a torch showed me five or six men on the threshold, armed with swords and spears.
XX: THE ESCAPE
I CROUCHED low in the wine-butt, that I might not be seen, and so saw nothing of the rioters, after that first glimpse. But, above my head, the red glare from their torches lighted the gloomy arches fitfully, and their figures cast gigantic black shadows on the walls. They rushed in, with a roar of triumph, and began to beat about for victims, and from their actions and their voices, I knew that they were already flushed with liquor and were as much in search of that as of imaginary traitors. A day of murder and of license had drawn to its close, and these men, gorged with blood and wine, were in a high good humour; they shouted to each other merrily, and roared with laughter because one of their number, more tipsy than the rest, began to fight his own shadow on the wall.