The two days which elapsed since the interview with the stranger had been passed by Dumiger in great misery. He blamed himself deeply for having been so easily entrapped into what he feared would prove a snare, and very foolishly, as we have seen, he wrote to Marguerite that she had everything to hope, as he still retained the desire of being honored by his fellow-townsmen, although they were not to enjoy the fruit of his labors.
On the eventful morning which has been described, Dumiger arose full of hope, his triumph was to be secured; and in the evening he even entertained a secret impression and belief that the people would not permit the clock to be removed, and that the error he had made might be retrieved by their energetic wills. He heard the bands of music playing in the distance. The merry chimes floated over the water, and bade him good speed. He thought that he could even discern the buzz of enjoyment, and the shout of anticipated triumph. He took out the last letter which Marguerite had written to him, and pressed it to his heart; that day, he thought, was to see them united never to be parted again.
What sound was that?—Was it the wind? No, the murmur of many voices, the tramp of a thousand feet, shook the drawbridge. He heard his own name called out. Yes, it is! it surely cannot be an error; it is Dumiger they are invoking. Now there can be no mistake, the crowd unite in one loud cry,—
"Where is Dumiger?"
"I am here, I am here," he shrieks out; "Open the gates."
What could it mean? the guards were resisting. There is a shot fired—is this the way in which a triumph is conducted? There is a pause—a parley.
"We want the man Dumiger, the prisoner," exclaims one.
"Good, you shall have him. Let but a few enter," says the lieutenant of the tower, "and the guard shall withdraw."
Immediately there is a loud rush on the stair, not the tramp, tramp, of regular troops.
"Here, here!" exclaims Dumiger; "here am I, my friends! Welcome, welcome!" and he rushes to embrace the first who enters.