“My lord!” It was a cry of utter anguish.
Feversham, settling his gold-laced coat comfortably to his figure, looked at her. “Madame?” said he.
But she had nothing to say. She stood, deathly white, slightly bent forward, one hand wringing the other, her eyes almost wild, her bosom heaving frantically.
“Hum!” said Feversham, and he loosened and removed the scarf from his head. He shrugged slightly and looked at Wentworth. “Finissons!” said he.
The word and the look snapped the trammels that bound Ruth's speech.
“Five minutes, my lord!” she cried imploringly. “Give him five minutes—and me, my lord!”
Wilding, deeply shaken, trembled now as he awaited Feversham's reply.
The Frenchman seemed to waver. “Bien,” he began, spreading his hands. And in that moment a shot rang out in the night and startled the whole company. Feversham threw back his head; the signs of yielding left his face. “Ha!” he cried. “T'ey are arrive.” He snatched his wig from his lacquey's hands, donned it, and turned again an instant to the mirror to adjust the great curls. “Quick, Wentwort'! T'ere is no more time now. Make Mistaire Wilding be shot at once. T'en to your regimen'.” He faced about and took the sword his valet proffered. “Au revoir, messieurs!”
“Serviteur, madame!” And, buckling his sword-belt as he went, he swept out, leaving the door wide open, Belmont following, Wentworth saluting and the guards presenting arms.
“Come, sir,” said the captain in a subdued voice, his eyes avoiding Ruth's face.