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
"True," Croisette had to admit. "But he must come last, because
whoever does so will have to let himself down."
I had not thought of that, and I nodded. It seemed that the lead was
passing out of my hands and I might resign myself. Still one thing I
would have. As Marie was to come last, I would go first. My weight
would best test the rope. And accordingly it was so decided.
There was no time to be lost. At any moment we might be interrupted.
So the plan was no sooner conceived than carried out. The rope was
made fast to my left wrist. Then I mounted on Marie's shoulders, and
climbed--not without quavering--through the window, taking as little
time over it as possible, for a bell was already proclaiming midnight.
All this I had done on the spur of the moment. But outside, hanging by
my hands in the darkness, the strokes of the great bell in my ears, I
had a moment in which to think. The sense of the vibrating depth below
me, the airiness, the space and gloom around, frightened me. "Are you
ready?" muttered Marie, perhaps with a little impatience. He had not
a scrap of imagination, had Marie.
"No! wait a minute!" I blurted out, clinging to the sill, and taking
a last look at the bare room, and the two dark figures between me and
the light. "No!" I added, hurriedly. "Croisette--boys, I called you
cowards just now. I take it back! I did not mean it! That is all!" I
gasped. "Let go!"
A warm touch on my hand. Something like a sob.
The next moment I felt myself sliding down the face of the house, down
into the depth. The light shot up. My head turned giddily. I clung,
oh, how I clung to that rope! Half way down the thought struck me that
in case of accident those above might not be strong enough to pull me
up again. But it was too late to think of that, and in another second
my feet touched the beam. I breathed again. Softly, very gingerly, I
made good my footing on the slender bridge, and, disengaging the rope,
let it go. Then, not without another qualm, I sat down astride of the
beam, and whistled in token of success. Success so far!
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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