"Patience, Monsieur; you will see."
There was a low, narrow door in the side of the hall, near the front. At the Count's bidding, an attendant opened this, and I was marched into a very small, bare room, the ceiling of which was scarce higher than my head. This apartment had evidently been designed as a doorkeeper's box. It's only furniture was a bench. A mere eyehole of a window in the corner looked upon the court-yard.
"Remember," I called back to the Count, "you cannot put injuries upon me with impunity. An account will be exacted in due time."
"Remember, you," he replied with a laugh, "that you have murdered two men here, and are subject to my sentence."
My guards left me in the room, and stationed themselves outside the door, which was then closed upon me. There was no lock to the door, but it was possible to fasten the latch on the outside, and this was done, as I presently discovered by trial.
I sat on the bench, and gazed out upon as much of the court-yard as the window showed. Suddenly the window was darkened by something placed against it outside,—a man's doublet propped up by a pike, or some such device. I could not guess why they should cut off my light, unless as a mere addition to the tediousness of my restraint. I disdained to show annoyance, though I might have thrust my arm through the window and displaced the obstruction. Later I saw the reason: it was to prevent my seeing who passed through the court-yard.
It seemed an hour until suddenly my door was flung open. In the doorway appeared the Captain, beckoning me to come forth. I did so.
Half-way up the hall, a little at one side, stood the Count. Near him, and looking straight toward me, sat the Countess in a great arm-chair. Besides the Captain and myself, those two were the only persons in the hall. Even my guards had disappeared, and all doors leading from the hall were shut.
The Countess, as I have said, was looking straight toward me. Her eyes had followed the Captain to my door, she wondering what was to come out of it. For assuredly she had not expected me to come out of it. She had still trusted that I had gone away in the night—the Count had not told her otherwise. Her surprise at seeing me was manifest in her startled look, which was followed by a low cry of compassionate regret.
The Count had been watching her with a painful intentness. He had not even turned his eyes to see me enter, having trusted to his ears to apprise him. At her display of concern, the skin of his face tightened; though that display was no more than any compassionate lady might have given in a similar case. Even the Count, after a moment, appeared to think more reasonably of her demeanour.