“Sanson! Sanson! Sanson!” they howled. “Out with the Christian morons! To the Rest Cure! The Rest Cure!”
The slit was pushed into place, cutting off all sound. Darkness was falling. The little light within the vault faded. Gradually the voices died away. Sometimes a hymn would be started, but mostly we sat silent now, and even the dogs ceased howling, and only stirred and whined at intervals. I heard the little woman’s children whimper, and fancied her motherly face bent over them as she quieted their fears. I only felt Elizabeth’s presence, and that of David, good, fatherly man, on whom I leaned more than he knew. At last the only sounds were the bishop’s mumbling voice, as he talked to himself, and the staccato tapping of his stick on the stone floors.
A man near me leaped up and craned his neck, looking into the gloom
“They are coming,” I heard him say. “They are gathering up the Stockholm fleets. They will be here—”
“Who?” I burst out.
“The Russians,” he answered gently. “See them coming; big men, with bloody crosses on their breasts.”
A man near me leaped up and craned his neck, looking into the gloom. One or two cried out at the old bishop’s words, and some listened and whispered eagerly. Time passed. Most of the prisoners slept. I was still too sick and dizzy from my wound; I waited in a sort of apathy, and I seemed to see Esther within the opening cylinder, and Sanson, creeping like a foul beast of prey toward her.
I had been dozing. I started up at the sound of bolts being withdrawn, the heavy door at the far end of the vault was opened, and flashing lights shone in on us. The dogs, awakened, began to howl again. There was the stamping of heavy boots upon the stones, and a detachment of the Guard appeared before us.
They numbered seven. Six of them were privates, carrying solar torches and Ray rods; and in their midst stood a tall man with a black beard and a curved sword sheath that clanked on the stones. I recognized in him Mehemet, the Turkish commander.