The House of the Wolf: A RomanceWeyman, Stanley John
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The House of the Wolf: A Romance
Weyman, Stanley John
Saint Bartholomew's Day, Massacre of, France, 1572 -- Fiction
I do not know how long I lay at see-saw between these two moods. Or
whether during that time the others talked or were silent, moved about
the room or lay still. But it was Croisette's hand on my shoulder,
touching me with a quivering eagerness that instantly communicated
itself to my limbs, which recalled me to the room and its shadows.
"Anne!" he cried. "Anne! Are you awake?"
"What is it?" I said, sitting up and looking at him.
"Marie," he began, "has--"
But there was no need for him to finish. I saw that Marie was standing
at the far side of the room by the unglazed window; which, being in a
sloping part of the roof, inclined slightly also. He had raised the
shutter which closed it, and on his tip-toes--for the sill was almost
his own height from the floor--was peering out. I looked sharply at
Croisette. "Is there a gutter outside?" I whispered, beginning to
tingle all over as the thought of escape for the first time occurred to
me.
"No," he answered in the same tone. "But Marie says he can see a beam
below, which he thinks we can reach."
I sprang up, promptly displaced Marie, and looked out. When my eyes
grew accustomed to the gloom I discerned a dark chaos of roofs and
gables stretching as far as I could see before me. Nearer, immediately
under the window, yawned a chasm--a narrow street. Beyond this was a
house rather lower than that in which we were, the top of its roof not
quite reaching the level of my eyes.
"I see no beam," I said.
"Look below!" quoth Marie, stolidly,
I did so, and then saw that fifteen or sixteen feet below our window
there was a narrow beam which ran from our house to the opposite
one--for the support of both, as is common in towns. In the shadow
near the far end of this--it was so directly under our window that I
could only see the other end of it--I made out a casement, faintly
illuminated from within.
I shook my head.
"We cannot get down to it," I said, measuring the distance to the beam
and the depth below it, and shivering.
"Marie says we can, with a short rope," Croisette replied. His eyes
were glistening with excitement.
"But we have no rope!" I retorted. I was dull--as usual. Marie made
no answer. Surely he was the most stolid and silent of brothers. I
turned to him. He was taking off his waistcoat and neckerchief.
"Good!" I cried. I began to see now. Off came our scarves and
kerchiefs also, and fortunately they were of home make, long and
strong. And Marie had a hank of four-ply yarn in his pocket as it
turned out, and I had some stout new garters, and two or three yards of
thin cord, which I had brought to mend the girths, if need should
arise. In five minutes we had fastened them cunningly together.
"I am the lightest," said Croisette.
"But Marie has the steadiest head," I objected. We had learned that
long ago--that Marie could walk the coping-stones of the battlements
with as little concern as we paced a plank set on the ground.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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