"Glaring at me, eye to eye, he casts about in his wily brain how to cheat me to my face—he was ever my superior in juggling tricks, although he had no bravery, except what paid him.
"But he is late in achieving his last throw for freedom—angry England has tracked the fugitive. A posse of gens d'armes—what you call police—pour into monsieur's private saloon, and advance to take my Mortlake.
"He glares at them with eyes of horror, gathers himself for a tiger's bound through their midst, and nearly gains the door.
"But he is caught—mid air; he is hurled to the floor; the shackles are on his wrists, the gyves are on his feet, and, with foam on his lips and murder in his eyes, he looks up at his captors.
"'Ha, ha! my bird!' jests a gen d'armes; 'you're caged at last. Your ticket of leave won't do any longer—it's out many a month ago; and, since you don't go in for road-work, in Tasmania, you can try the shortest road to glory.'
"The convict says never a word, but shuts his eyes and succumbs; and so they carry him away, and I have bade my last adieu to Monsieur Mortlake.
"Ma chère, there are ups in this world, and there are downs; I have seen both—I have been elevated to the highest pinnacle of fortune, and again thrown under fortune's wheel—but, mademoiselle, my honor has never been impugned, for it was above reproach.
"Yet this dog of a Mortlake had ventured to amuse himself at my expense—had outwitted me in my own game; can the depths of misfortune be too profound for such a traitor? Pardieu! no, a thousand times no!
"So that when my Mortlake was dragged to prison, I, the insulted man of honesty, felt only joy that there was a rogue less to find.
"Most illustrious heroine, shall I resume the chronicles?