It was well on towards dark when we finished. One by one the country gossips entered and took their places. The landlord lit the oil lanthorn that hung from the ceiling. Its yellow rays cast flitting shadows about the room. The air was heavy from the odor of the cooking and the dampness of the clay floor. The scrivener eyed every stranger in the place as keenly as though he were cutting him open with a knife. He began to yawn. He bade me fling a coin on the table to pay the score and make ready for bed.
We stood up. We were about to turn when the door of the inn flew open with a bang. I jumped as though the floor had suddenly given way. We both turned. In the next second my heart sank to my shoes, for in the wavering light of the lanthorn I saw De Marsac with half a dozen troopers at his back peering eagerly over his shoulders. He strode to the middle of the floor and whirled searchingly around. When his eyes rested on us, he raised his arm and pointed.
“I knew I would find you here!” he cried. His voice was shaking between joy and anger. “I have caught you like mice in a trap!”
I looked searchingly at the scrivener. He stood with his hands at his side as unmoved as a piece of marble, with only the flicker of a smile playing about the edges of his mouth.
“It is my friend, De Marsac!” he cried. “You have indeed cornered us at last.”
A chill shot down my spine. De Marsac flung out his arm.
“Seize them!” he called. “Bind them till the thongs cut into their flesh. Let one of you stand guard over them for the night.” He spun on his heel. His men rushed at us as though we were mad dogs. In the twinkling of an eye we were thrown to the floor and lashed hand and foot with thongs of deer hide.
De Marsac halted at the door.
“Tomorrow, at the break of day, they are to be hanged upon the nearest tree!”
In the next breath he was lost in the dark.