He had no chance to retaliate the brutality. The door closed upon him with a clash and a curse—followed by the shooting of a bolt outside.
Inside the cell all was darkness; and for a moment he remained standing where the propulsion had left him.
But he was not silent. His heart was full of indignation; and his lips mechanically gave utterance to it in a wild anathema against all forms and shapes of despotism.
More than ever did his heart thrill for the Republic; for he knew they were not its soldiers who surrounded him.
It was the first time he had experienced in his own person the bitterness of that irresponsible rule confined to the one-man power; and better than ever he now comprehended the heart-hatred of Roseveldt for priests, princes, and kings!
“It’s plain the Republic’s at an end here?” he muttered to himself after venting that anathema upon its enemies.
“C’est vrai, monsieur,” said a voice, speaking from the interior of the cell. “C’est fini! It ends this day!”
Maynard started. He had believed himself alone.
“You French speak?” continued the voice. “Vous êtes Anglais?”
“To your first question,” answered Maynard, “Yes! To your second, No! Je suis Irlandais!”