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
To return to our own fortunes; after a hurried glance we resumed our
way, and sped through the alley, holding a brief consultation as we
went. Pavannes' first hasty instinct to seek shelter at home began to
lose its force, and he to consider whether his return would not
endanger his wife. The mob might be expected to spare her, he argued.
Her death would not benefit any private foes if he escaped. He was for
keeping away therefore. But I would not agree to this. The priest's
crew of desperadoes--assuming Pavannes' suspicions to be correct--would
wait some time, no doubt, to give the master of the house a chance to
return, but would certainly attack sooner or later out of greed, if
from no other motive. Then the lady's fate would at the best be
uncertain. I was anxious myself to rejoin my brothers, and take all
future chances, whether of saving our Louis, or escaping ourselves,
with them. United we should be four good swords, and might at least
protect Madame de Pavannes to a place of safety, if no opportunity of
succouring Louis should present itself. We had too the Duke's ring,
and this might be of service at a pinch. "No," I urged, "let us get
together. We two will slip in at the front gate, and bolt and bar it,
and then we will all escape in a body at the back, while they are
forcing the gateway."
"There is no door at the back," he answered, shaking his head.
"There are windows?"
"They are too strongly barred. We could not break out in the time," he
explained, with a groan.
I paused at that, crestfallen. But danger quickened my wits. In a
moment I had another plan, not so hopeful and more dangerous, yet worth
trying I thought, I told him of it, and he agreed to it. As he nodded
assent we emerged into a street, and I saw--for the grey light of
morning was beginning to penetrate between the houses--that we were
only a few yards from the gateway, and the small door by which I had
seen my brothers enter. Were they still in the house? Were they safe?
I had been away an hour at least.
Anxious as I was about them, I looked round me very keenly as we
flitted across the road, and knocked gently at the door. I thought it
so likely that we should be fallen upon here, that I stood on my guard
while we waited. But we were not molested. The street, being at some
distance from the centre of the commotion, was still and empty, with no
signs of life apparent except the rows of heads poked through the
windows--all possessing eyes which watched us heedfully and in perfect
silence. Yes, the street was quite empty: except, ah! except, for
that lurking figure, which, even as I espied it, shot round a distant
angle of the wall, and was lost to sight.
"There!" I cried, reckless now who might hear me, "knock! knock
louder! never mind the noise. The alarm is given. A score of people
are watching us, and yonder spy has gone off to summon his friends."
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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