The clangour of the outer door closing recalled that there was danger still below. Olivia put a frightened hand on her father's arm. “A thousand pardons, Montaiglon,” cried he; “but here's a task to finish.” And without a word more of excuse or explanation he plunged downstairs.
Count Victor looked dubiously after him, and made no move to follow.
“Surely you will not be leaving him alone there,” said Olivia. “Oh! you have not your sword. I will get your sword.” And before he could reply she had flown to his room. She returned with the weapon. Her hand was all trembling as she held it out to him. He took it slowly; there seemed no need for haste below now, for all was silent except the voices of Doom and Mungo.
“It is very good of you, Mademoiselle Olivia,” said he. “I thank you, but—but—you find me in a quandary. Am I to consider M. le Baron as ally or—or—or—” He hesitated to put the brutal alternative to the daughter.
Olivia stamped her foot impetuously, her visage disturbed by emotions of anxiety, vexation, and shame.
“Oh, go! go!” she cried. “You will not, surely, be taking my father for a traitor to his own house—for a murderer.”
“I desire to make the least of a pleasantry I am incapable of comprehending, yet his dagger was uncomfortably close to my ribs a minute or two ago,” sard Count Victor reflectively.
“Oh!” she cried. “Is not this a coil? I must even go myself,” and she made to descend.
“Nay, nay,” said Count Victor softly, holding her back. “Nay, nay; I will go if your whole ancestry were ranked at the foot.”
“It is the most stupid thing,” she cried, as he left her; “I will explain when you come up. My father is a Highland gentleman.”