I saw that I was in a sleeping-room, the great, curtained bed occupying one side. A single candle burning on a table near it illumined the room but feebly, yet there was light enough to show me a window opposite the bed. I ran to it and threw back the shutter with a crash. The window was barred. I glanced again about the room. There was no other window--no other door but that by which I had entered, and which was already creaking under the blows rained upon it. I must die here, then, like a rat in a trap. Well, I would not die alone! “What is this?” cried a voice from the bed. “Name of God! Did I not tell you, Gaspard, that I wanted quiet? Are you pulling the house down? Answer me, man!” The curtains were jerked apart and a face appeared between them--a horrible face, swollen and bandaged. He listened a moment to the blows and cries without, then got unsteadily to his feet and took a sword from the chair at his bedside, cursing softly to himself the while. And as he turned his eyes fell upon me. “Who are you?” he demanded. “What do you here?” A spark of hope sprang to life in my breast. “I am Paul de Marsan,” I explained. “I have a message for M. le Comte de Cadillac.” He sat down heavily upon a chair. “Very well,” he said. “I am he. But that does not explain this cursed uproar.” My hat was off and I was on my knee before him in an instant. Perhaps here I should get justice. The door was already splitting. I had need to speak quickly. “M. le Comte,” I cried, “believe me, I am your faithful and devoted servant. I have journeyed fifty leagues to bring you a message of great moment to your house. Yet, when I came here and asked to see you that I might give you this message, I was called a spy, set upon, and threatened with the gibbet.” “But why--why?” he asked. “I do not know, Monsieur,” I answered. He looked me for an instant in the eyes. “M. de Marsan,” he said, “I believe you. Get behind my chair. I will protect you from these fools.” It was time. Even as he spoke there came a mighty crash against the door, as of a heavy log hurled upon it, and it leaped from its hinges. The mob poured into the room, headed by d’Aurilly and Letourge. For an instant, in the semi-darkness, they did not see me standing there behind their master, then they were upon me with a yell of rage. But M. le Comte was out of his chair, his sword advanced. “One step more,” he cried, “and I strike! Letourge, d’Aurilly, you shall answer for this with your necks! Are you mad?” The mob stopped on the instant. Plainly they knew that when their master struck, he struck home. “He is a spy, Monsieur!” cried Letourge. “He hath come hither to assassinate you--to complete the work he began in the Rue Gogard!” M. le Comte started round upon me, his eyes wild with passion. He snatched the candle from the table and thrust it near my face, his lips a-quiver. He held it a moment so, and then set it down again.