"Keep quiet!" whispered Feriz, "perhaps they are shooting at the people who are thronging the gates."
Nevertheless the shots were repeated from every bastion; the tumult, the uproar increased; a tattoo was beaten, the trumpets rang out and a whole concourse of people could be seen running along the bastions with torches and flashing swords in their hands.
"They are pursuing someone!" cried the Prince, and unable to endure it any longer, he leaped upon the bank.
"I know not what it is," stammered Feriz, and a cold shudder ran through his body.
Ghyka grasped his sword, and would have rushed up the hill as if obeying some blind instinct.
"What would you do?" whispered Feriz, grasping the hand of the Prince, and pulling him back by force under the gate.
For a few moments they stood there in a dead silence, the tumult, the uproar seemed to be coming nearer and nearer—if it were to overtake them?
"Hush!" whispered Feriz, holding his ear close to the door. He seemed to hear footsteps approaching from within and the plaintive wail of a child.
A few moments afterwards there was a fumbling at the latch and a key was thrust into the lock and twice turned. Feriz hastened to open the door and the senseless forms of the two women fell at his feet.
The youth quickly dragged the Prince after him, and recognising Mariska, who still lay in the embrace of Azrael, he placed her in her husband's arms together with the weeping child.