But in the terrible tension of their nerves and very souls they found they could hear a whisper fainter than any man could catch at all outside that door. They could hear each other's hearts thump at times. “Good news!” breathed Denys, listening at the door. “They are casting lots.” “Pray that it may be the Abbot.” “Yes. Why? “If he comes alone I can make sure of him.” “Denys!” “Ay!” “I fear I shall go mad, if they do not come soon.” “Shall I feign sleep? Shall I snore?” “Will that-------? “Perhaps” “Do then and God have mercy on us!” Denys snored at intervals. There was a scuffling of feet heard in the kitchen, and then all was still. Denys snored again. Then took up his position behind the door. But he, or they, who had drawn the lot, seemed determined to run no foolish risks. Nothing was attempted in a hurry. When they were almost starved with cold, and waiting for the attack, the door on the stairs opened softly and closed again. Nothing more. There was another harrowing silence. Then a single light footstep on the stair; and nothing more. Then a light crept under the door and nothing more. Presently there was a gentle scratching, not half so loud as a mouse's, and the false door-post opened by degrees, and left a perpendicular space, through which the light streamed in. The door, had it been bolted, would now have hung by the bare tip of the bolt, which went into the real door-post, but as it was, it swung gently open of itself. It opened inwards, so Denys did not raise his crossbow from the ground, but merely grasped his dagger. The candle was held up, and shaded from behind by a man's hand. He was inspecting the beds from the threshold, satisfied that his victims were both in bed. The man glided into the apartment. But at the first step something in the position of the cupboard and chair made him uneasy. He ventured no further, but put the candle on the floor and stooped to peer under the chair; but as he stooped, an iron hand grasped his shoulder, and a dagger was driven so fiercely through his neck that the point came out at his gullet. There was a terrible hiccough, but no cry; and half-a-dozen silent strokes followed in swift succession, each a death-blow, and the assassin was laid noiselessly on the floor. Denys closed the door, bolted it gently, drew the post to, and even while he was going whispered Gerard to bring a chair. It was done. “Help me set him up.” “Dead?” “Parbleu.” “What for?” “Frighten them! Gain time.” Even while saying this, Denys had whipped a piece of string round the dead man's neck, and tied him to the chair, and there the ghastly figure sat fronting the door. “Denys, I can do better. Saints forgive me!” “What? Be quick then, we have not many moments.”