As he turned toward the city, Quentin saw his pursuers at the bridge entrance.
“They’ve trapped me!” he exclaimed in a rage.
They were evidently reconnoitering the bridge on both sides, for the watchman’s lantern oscillated from left to right, and from right to left.
Quentin crept toward one of the vaulted niches in the middle of the bridge.
“Shall I get in there? They will find that easier than anything else. What shall I do?”
To throw himself into the river was too dangerous. To attack his pursuers was absurd.
As if to add to his misfortunes, the moon was coming from behind the cloud that had hidden it, and was shedding its light over the bridge. Quentin climbed into the niche.
What irritated him most was being made prisoner in such a stupid way. He did not fear prison, but rather the loss of prestige with the people. Those who had been enthusiastic over his deeds, when they learned that he had been made prisoner, would begin to look upon him as a common, everyday person, and that did not suit him in the least.
“I must do something ... anything. What can I do?”