“As you wish, Mademoiselle,” agreed De Richleau, impatiently. “But let us go.”
“One minute,” she said, as Rex was about to pick up Simon in his arms. “Why should we not carry him on my bed — it is a framework of wire springs only.”
“Now that’s certainly an idea. Let’s take a look at that bed of yours.” Rex went into the inner room.
“It is not as the Russian beds,” Marie Lou added. “It is part of the loot which came from the Château. See, the framework lifts off.”
“That’s fine,” Rex nodded. “Wait a minute, though. I’d forgotten the Duke’s arm. He couldn’t hump the other end with his shoulder all messed up.”
A muffled groan came from under the bed. “Rakov,” she suggested quickly. “He shall take the other end. He shall carry other things as well. We will shoot him if he tries to escape.”
“Keep him prisoner until we escape ourselves?”
“It is the only thing to do. He’ll give information if we let him go before.”
“Sure thing, and his help in carrying that bed will be mighty useful. I’ve been scared stiff of this jaunt. If Simon loses any more blood he’ll peg out.”
A few minutes later the little procession set out into the night, Marie Lou leading, the stretcher-bearers next, Rex at its head, and Rakov at the feet. Lastly De Richleau, automatic in hand, with which he occasionally prodded Rakov in the back. All were loaded down with heavy burdens; it was a slow and painful journey. Three times before they reached the gates of the gardens they had to rest. In spite of his magnificent physique Rex was almost dropping with exhaustion. His head was aching for want of sleep, and for all his care to avoid jolting Simon, he was so tired that his feet stumbled in the snow — he found his head sinking forward on his chest as he walked — black spots came and went before his eyes.