“Pass out at this window, monseigneur,” said Benoit, in a low voice to the Constable, moving towards the back of the room. “You may gain the wood at the foot of the hill.” “Have a care,” whispered Hugues. “The house is surrounded by soldiers.” “Open the window at once,” said Bourbon. “I will cut my way through them.” “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?” “Hold your tongue, wife, I command you,” said the stout-hearted miller. “But I can't stand by and see your throat cut, Benoit,” she rejoined. “I must speak.” “Certainly you must, unless you desire to become a widow,” said Warthy. “You may as well confess that Bourbon is here. Your looks betray you. He cannot escape, for the house is surrounded, and I don't mean to leave a hole or corner unvisited. Where is the traitor, I say?” “Where is he, Benoit?” she cried, appealing to her husband. “For my sake, don't sacrifice yourself.” “Woman, you have lost your senses,” said the miller, angrily. “What do I know about the Duke de Bourbon?” “You know a great deal more than you appear inclined to tell, rascal,” rejoined Warthy. “But I will have the truth from you. I give you five minutes for consideration,” he added, releasing him, “and if at the end of that time Bourbon be not forthcoming, I will execute my threat, and hang you at your own door.”