“And not only,” said he under his breath, laughing at himself, “do I ask whether she will come to the meeting-place, but in reality I hope keenly that she will be there and that I shall see her again and that, both of us victors, we shall fall into one another’s arms.”
Through a gate in the little wall, the top of which was bristling with broken bottles, he went into the enclosure. There was no trace of anyone’s passage through the weeds; but it was possible to cross the wall in another place and to climb in through one of the windows at the side.
His heart was beating. His fists were clenched. He was ready for the struggle, if a trap had been laid for him.
“But how silly I am!” he thought. “Why a trap?”
He turned the handle of the worm-eaten door and entered.
On the instant he felt that someone was in hiding in the recess beside the door. He had no time to turn upon the assailant. Scarcely did he become aware of him, by instinct rather than by actual vision than a noose that dragged him backwards tightened round his neck and a knee came with brutal violence against the small of his back. Suffocated and jolted, he was at the mercy of his opponent and came heavily to the ground.
“A good stroke, Leonard!” he muttered. “A pretty revenge!”
He was wrong. It was not Leonard. He caught sight of his assailant’s profile and recognized Beaumagnan. Then while Beaumagnan was tying his hands, he rectified his error and admitted his surprise in the simple words:
“So—so—the candidate for the priesthood!”