The cavalry, in the mean time, had lost the way, was riding its foam-flecked horses along another street, and losing, time when every second counted.
But Black Humbert, breathing hard, had heard sounds in the street, and put up the chain. He stood at bay, a huge, shaken figure at the foot of the stone staircase. He was for flight now. But surely—outside at the door some one gave the secret knock of the tribunal, and followed it by the pass-word. He breathed again. Friends, of course, come for the ammunition. But, to be certain, he went to the window of his bureau, and looked out through the bars. Students!
“Coming!” he called. And kicked at Nikky’s quiet figure as he passed it. Then he unbolted the door, dropped the chain, and opened the door.
Standing before him, backed by a great crowd of fantastic figures, was Haeckel.
They did not kill him at once. At the points of a dozen bayonets, intended for vastly different work, they forced him up the staircase, flight after flight. At first he cried pitifully that he knew nothing of the royal child, then he tried to barter what he knew for his life. They jeered at him, pricked him shamefully from behind with daggers.
At the top of the last flight he turnery and faced them. “Gentlemen, friends!” he implored. “I have done him no harm. It was never in my mind to do him an injury. I—”
“He is in the room where you kept me?” asked Haeckel, in a low voice.
“He is there, and safe.”
Then Haeckel killed him. He struck him with a dagger, and his great body fell on the stairs. He was still moving and groaning, as they swarmed over him.
Haeckel faced the crowd. “There are others,” he said. “I know them all. When we have finished here, we will go on.”