"They were right to be afraid. And you yourself feel the horror of it all."
She rushed to the door, drew the bolt, tried to open it; but what could she do against that massive, iron-clad door?
Stéphane seized her by the arm:
"One moment . . . . Listen . . . . It sounds as if . . ."
"Yes," she said, "it's up there that they are knocking . . . above our heads . . . in François' cell . . . ."
"Not at all, not at all: listen . . . ."
There was a long silence; and then blows were heard in the thickness of the cliff. The sound came from below them.
"The same blows that I heard this morning," said Stéphane, in dismay. "The same attempt of which I spoke to you . . . . Ah, I understand! . . ."
"What? What do you mean?"
The blows were repeated, at regular intervals, and then ceased, to be followed by a dull, continuous sound, pierced by shriller creakings and sudden cracks, like the straining of machinery newly started, or of one of those capstans which are used for hoisting boats up a beach.