Soon they are close up to the dwelling, their voices loudly reverberating from its walls.
The assassin cannot any longer keep to his couch. Too well knows he what the noise is, his guilty heart guessing it.
Springing to his feet, he glides across the room, and approaches the window—cautiously, because in fear.
His limbs tremble, as he draws the curtain and looks out. Then almost refusing to support him: for, in the courtyard he sees a half-score of armed horsemen, and hears them angrily discoursing. One at their head he knows to be the Sheriff of the county; beside him his Deputy, and behind a brace of constables. In rear of these, two men he has reason to believe will be his most resolute accusers.
He has no time to discriminate; for, soon as entering the enclosure, the horsemen dismount, and make towards the door of the dwelling.
In less than sixty seconds after, they knock against that of his sleeping chamber, demanding admission.
No use denying them, as its occupant is well aware—not even to ask—
“Who’s there?”
Instead, he says, in accent tremulous—
“Come in.”