At length he rose from his knees. "The Lord will hear and answer," he said simply; but I made no reply, sitting with my head between my hands, staring in front of me. So till the moon set; and I must have slept. Suddenly I felt a hand on my shoulder, and started up. It was La Mothe.
"Hark!" he said. "Do you not hear?"
I listened. There was a distinct murmuring, the clattering of hoofs, the neigh of a horse, and then a cry, faint but distinct:
"Vendôme! Vendôme! Bourbon! Nôtre Dame!"
We sprang to our feet. "The Lord, who preserved His chosen from out of the land of bondage, hath heard my cry, and we are saved!" exclaimed La Mothe, and making our way to the door we listened. All was stillness once more, a stillness that seemed to last for hours, though it was but for a few minutes. At last we heard the tramp of many feet, louder and louder they grew, and then there was a rattling of chains, and our prison door fell open, letting in a stream of light. In the blaze in the doorway stood Vendôme and Martines, and behind them a crowd of eager faces.
"These are the prisoners, Monseigneur!" said Martines.
"And I, Antony de Bourbon-Vendôme, First Prince of the Blood Royal of France, stand here on my right and claim them. Gentlemen," and he turned to us, "you are free; follow me!"
CHAPTER XXVIII
THE ARM OF GOD
Four days had passed since that dreadful night in the Rue des Mathurins—days the memory of which can never be effaced whilst I live. No tidings were obtainable of mademoiselle, save that she was amongst the prisoners who were being tried in secret by De Mouchy, and all efforts to communicate with her had been in vain. This much, however, leaked out: that owing to the whispers that had got abroad—none knew how—the prisoners, with the exception of one or two, were not of importance; but this in itself made the matter worse for mademoiselle, and gave the mock court of justice—it could be called by no other name—every opportunity of veiling its real purpose. In this De Mouchy was managing the trial with great skill. The prisoners of no account—the scrivener's clerk, the poor shopkeeper, the small mercer—got the benefit of plea and quibble! God knows, I did not grudge them that! But each acquittal, pronounced loudly in the name of the King's mercy, with high-flown words about the love of the King for his people, led step by step to the real object for which the infamous triangle worked. Already the gossips were beginning to wag their tongues at the leniency shown. It was said in the cabarets and public places that the memory of the tailor of St. Antoine haunted the King, and that he and the Queen were, in secret, heretics. At the last acquittal the cruel mob of Paris had actually dared to parade the streets, with angry cries at being deprived of the hideous spectacle of an expiation. "Au feu, au feu! Death to the Christaudins!" I still seem to hear their voices.