“Give me a sword, père Benoit,” said Hugues.
“Here is one,” rejoined Madelon, unhooking a weapon from the wall, and presenting it to him.
“Stay a moment, monseigneur,” said Benoit. “A plan occurs to me. I should have thought of it before, but I am so bewildered. Underneath this room there is a vault where I store my corn before grinding it. Will it please you to hide there?”
“If the retreat should be discovered, we shall be caught like rats in a trap, and can offer no defence,” objected Bourbon.
“My father has not explained that there is a communication between the vault and the mill,” interposed Madelon. “Your highness can get out that way, should it be necessary.”
“The entrance to the vault is there—under the staircase,” urged the miller. “Madelon will conduct your highness. Lift the trap, girl—lift it quickly,” he added to his daughter.
The trap-door was soon opened by Madelon, who descended by means of a ladder into the vault, and was instantly followed by the fugitives, the trap-door being shut by Hugues, who went down last.
Scarcely had they disappeared, when the outer door was burst open with a tremendous crash, and Warthy, sword in hand, and followed by four men-at-arms, rushed into the house. Alarmed by the noise, Margot and Babet hurried down the staircase, bearing lights, both screaming loudly as they perceived Benoit upon his knees before Warthy, who held a sword to his throat. Flying towards them, and kneeling to Warthy, Margot besought him, in piteous terms, to spare her husband's life.
“Harm him not, and I will tell all,” she cried, almost frightened out of her wits.
“Speak out then at once, woman,” said Warthy. “Where is the traitor Bourbon hidden?”