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- Author: Baroness Emmuska Orczy Orczy
Book online «El Dorado: An Adventure of the Scarlet Pimpernel by Baroness Emmuska Orczy Orczy (sites to read books for free .TXT) 📖». Author Baroness Emmuska Orczy Orczy
“Leave it standing where it is, then; citizen Chauvelin will need it in the morning.”
“Armand,” whispered Marguerite inside the coach, “did you see Percy?”
“It was so dark,” murmured Armand feebly; “but I saw him, just inside the gates, where they had laid him down. I heard him groaning. Oh, my God!”
“Hush, dear!” she said. “We can do nothing more, only die, as he lived, bravely and with a smile on our lips, in memory of him.”
“Number 35 is wounded, citizen,” said one of the men.
“Curse the fool who did the mischief,” was the placid response. “Leave him here with the guard.”
“How many of you are there left, then?” asked the same voice a moment later.
“Only two, citizen; if one whole section remains with me at the chapel door, and also the wounded man.”
“Two are enough for me, and five are not too many at the chapel door.” And Heron’s coarse, cruel laugh echoed against the stone walls of the little chapel. “Now then, one of you get into the coach, and the other go to the horses’ heads; and remember, Corporal Cassard, that you and your men who stay here to guard that chapel door are answerable to the whole nation with your lives for the safety of the Englishman.”
The carriage door was thrown open, and a soldier stepped in and sat down opposite Marguerite and Armand. Heron in the meanwhile was apparently scrambling up the box. Marguerite could hear him muttering curses as he groped for the reins, and finally gathered them into his hand.
The springs of the coach creaked and groaned as the vehicle slowly swung round; the wheels ploughed deeply through the soft carpet of dead leaves.
Marguerite felt Armand’s inert body leaning heavily against her shoulder.
“Are you in pain, dear?” she asked softly.
He made no reply, and she thought that he had fainted. It was better so; at least the next dreary hours would flit by for him in the blissful state of unconsciousness. Now at last the heavy carriage began to move more evenly. The soldier at the horses’ heads was stepping along at a rapid pace.
Marguerite would have given much even now to look back once more at the dense black mass, blacker and denser than any shadow that had ever descended before on God’s earth, which held between its cold, cruel walls all that she loved in the world.
But her wrists were fettered by the irons, which cut into her flesh when she moved. She could no longer lean out of the window, and she could not even hear. The whole forest was hushed, the wind was lulled to rest; wild beasts and night-birds were silent and still. And the wheels of the coach creaked in the ruts, bearing Marguerite with every turn further and further away from the man who lay helpless in the chapel of the Holy Sepulchre.
CHAPTER XLVIII. THE WANING MOON
Armand had wakened from his attack of faintness, and brother and sister sat close to one another, shoulder touching shoulder. That sense of nearness was the one tiny spark of comfort to both of them on this dreary, dreary way.
The coach had lumbered on unceasingly since all eternity—so it seemed to them both. Once there had been a brief halt, when Heron’s rough voice had ordered the soldier at the horses’ heads to climb on the box beside him, and once—it had been a very little while ago—a terrible cry of pain and terror had rung through the stillness of the night. Immediately after that the horses had been put at a more rapid pace, but it had seemed to Marguerite as if that one cry of pain had been repeated by several others which sounded more feeble and soon appeared to be dying away in the distance behind.
The soldier who sat opposite to them must have heard the cry too, for he jumped up, as if wakened from sleep, and put his head out of the window.
“Did you hear that cry, citizen?” he asked.
But only a curse answered him, and a peremptory command not to lose sight of the prisoners by poking his head out of the window.
“Did you hear the cry?” asked the soldier of Marguerite as he made haste to obey.
“Yes! What could it be?” she murmured.
“It seems dangerous to drive so fast in this darkness,” muttered the soldier.
After which remark he, with the stolidity peculiar to his kind, figuratively shrugged his shoulders, detaching himself, as it were, of the whole affair.
“We should be out of the forest by now,” he remarked in an undertone a little while later; “the way seemed shorter before.”
Just then the coach gave an unexpected lurch to one side, and after much groaning and creaking of axles and springs it came to a standstill, and the citizen agent was heard cursing loudly and then scrambling down from the box.
The next moment the carriage-door was pulled open from without, and the harsh voice called out peremptorily:
“Citizen soldier, here—quick!—quick!—curse you!—we’ll have one of the horses down if you don’t hurry!”
The soldier struggled to his feet; it was never good to be slow in obeying the citizen agent’s commands. He was half-asleep and no doubt numb with cold and long sitting still; to accelerate his movements he was suddenly gripped by the arm and dragged incontinently out of the coach.
Then the door was slammed to again, either by a rough hand or a sudden gust of wind, Marguerite could not tell; she heard a cry of rage and one of terror, and Heron’s raucous curses. She cowered in the corner of the carriage with Armand’s head against her shoulder, and tried to close her ears to all those hideous sounds.
Then suddenly all the sounds were hushed and all around everything became perfectly calm and still—so still that at first the silence oppressed her with a vague, nameless dread. It was as if Nature herself had paused, that she might listen; and the silence became more and more absolute, until Marguerite could hear Armand’s soft, regular breathing close to her ear.
The window nearest to her was open, and as she leaned forward with that paralysing sense of oppression a breath of pure air struck full upon her nostrils and brought with it a briny taste as if from the sea.
It was not quite so dark; and there was a sense as of open country stretching out to the limits of the horizon. Overhead a vague greyish light suffused the sky, and the wind swept the clouds in great rolling banks right across that light.
Marguerite gazed upward with a
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