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
He scrambled down hand over hand at last, and then I saw that he had
not lingered above for nothing. He had contrived after getting out of
the window to let down the shutter. And more he had at some risk
lengthened our rope, and made a double line of it, so that it ran round
a hinge of the shutter; and when he stood beside us, he took it by one
end and disengaged it. Good, clever Marie!
"Bravo!" I said softly, clapping him on the back. "Now they will not
know which way the birds have flown!"
So there we all were, one of us, I confess, trembling. We slid easily
enough along the beam to the opposite house. But once there in a row
one behind the other with our faces to the wall, and the night air
blowing slantwise--well I am nervous on a height and I gasped. The
window was a good six feet above the beam, The casement--it was
unglazed--was open, veiled by a thin curtain, and alas! protected by
three horizontal bars--stout bars they looked.
Yet we were bound to get up, and to get in; and I was preparing to rise
to my feet on the giddy bridge as gingerly as I could, when Marie
crawled quickly over us, and swung himself up to the narrow sill, much
as I should mount a horse on the level. He held out his foot to me,
and making an effort I reached the same dizzy perch. Croisette for the
time remained below.
A narrow window-ledge sixty feet above the pavement, and three bars to
cling to! I cowered to my holdfasts, envying even Croisette. My legs
dangled airily, and the black chasm of the street seemed to yawn for
me. For a moment I turned sick. I recovered from that to feel
desperate. I remembered that go forward we must, bars or no bars. We
could not regain our old prison if we would.
It was equally clear that we could not go forward if the inmates should
object. On that narrow perch even Marie was helpless. The bars of the
window were close together. A woman, a child, could disengage our
hands, and then--I turned sick again. I thought of the cruel stones.
I glued my face to the bars, and pushing aside a corner of the curtain,
looked in.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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