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leather belts, wielded by the stolid arms of two sturdy soldiers of

the Republic. The howls of Benjamin Rosenbaum were fit to make the



dead rise from their graves. They must have wakened all the gulls

from sleep, and made them look down with great interest at the doings



of the lords of the creation.

"That will do," commanded Chauvelin, as the Jew's moans became



more feeble, and the poor wretch seemed to have fainted away,

"we don't want to kill him."



Obediently the soldiers buckled on their belts, one of them

viciously kicking the Jew to one side.



"Leave him there," said Chauvelin, "and lead the way now

quickly to the cart. I'll follow."



He walked up to where Marguerite lay, and looked down into her

face. She had evidently recovered consciousness" target="_blank" title="n.意识;觉悟;知觉">consciousness, and was making



feeble efforts to raise herself. Her large, blue eyes were looking at

the moonlit scene round her with a scared and terrified look; they



rested with a mixture of horror and pity on the Jew, whose luckless

fate and wild howls had been the first signs that struck her, with her



returning senses; then she caught sight of Chauvelin, in his neat,

dark clothes, which seemed hardly crumpled after the stirring events



of the last few hours. He was smiling sarcastically, and his pale

eyes peered down at her with a look of intense malice.



With mock gallantry, he stooped and raised her icy-cold hand

to his lips, which sent a thrill of indescribable loathing through



Marguerite's weary frame.

"I much regret, fair lady," he said in his most suave tones,



"that circumstances, over which I have no control, compel me to leave

you here for the moment. But I go away, secure in the knowledge that



I do not leave you unprotected. Our friend Benjamin here, though a

trifle the worse for wear at the present moment, will prove a gallant



defender of your fair person, I have no doubt. At dawn I will send an

escort for you; until then, I feel sure that you will find him



devoted, though perhaps a trifle slow."

Marguerite only had the strength to turn her head away. Her



heart was broken with cruel anguish. One awful thought had returned

to her mind, together with gatheringconsciousness" target="_blank" title="n.意识;觉悟;知觉">consciousness: "What had become



of Percy?--What of Armand?"

She knew nothing of what had happened after she heard the



cheerful song, "God save the King," which she believed to be the

signal of death.



"I, myself," concluded Chauvelin, "must now very reluctantly

leave you. AU REVOIR, fair lady. We meet, I hope, soon in London.



Shall I see you at the Prince of Wales garden party?--No?--Ah, well,

AU REVOIR!--Remember me, I pray, to Sir Percy Blakeney.



And, with a last ironical smile and bow, he once more kissed

her hand, and disappeared down the footpath in the wake of the



soldiers, and followed by the imperturbable Desgas.

CHAPTER XXXI THE ESCAPE



Marguerite listened--half-dazed as she was--to the

fast-retreating, firm footsteps of the four men.



All nature was so still that she, lying with her ear close to

the ground, could distinctly trace the sound of their tread, as they



ultimately turned into the road, and presently the faint echo of the

old cart-wheels, the halting gait of the lean nag, told her that her



enemy was a quarter of a league away. How long she lay there she knew

not. She had lost count of time; dreamily she looked up at the



moonlit sky, and listened to the monotonous roll of the waves.

The invigorating scent of the sea was nectar to her wearied



body, the immensity of the lonely cliffs was silent and dreamlike.

Her brain only remained conscious of its ceaseless, its intolerable



torture of uncertainty.

She did not know!--



She did not know whether Percy was even now, at this moment,

in the hands of the soldiers of the Republic, enduring--as she had



done herself--the gibes and jeers of his malicious enemy. She did not

know, on the other hand, whether Armand's lifeless body did not lie



there, in the hut, whilst Percy had escaped, only to hear that his

wife's hands had guided the human bloodhounds to the murder of Armand



and his friends.

The physical pain of utter weariness was so great, that she



hoped confidently her tired body could rest here for ever, after all

the turmoil, the passion, and the intrigues of the last few






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