We stood up. We were about to turn when the door of the inn flew open with a bang. I jumped as though the floor had suddenly given way. We both turned. In the next second my heart sank to my shoes, for in the wavering light of the lanthorn I saw De Marsac with half a dozen troopers at his back peering eagerly over his shoulders. He strode to the middle of the floor and whirled searchingly around. When his eyes rested on us, he raised his arm and pointed. “I knew I would find you here!” he cried. His voice was shaking between joy and anger. “I have caught you like mice in a trap!” I looked searchingly at the scrivener. He stood with his hands at his side as unmoved as a piece of marble, with only the flicker of a smile playing about the edges of his mouth. “It is my friend, De Marsac!” he cried. “You have indeed cornered us at last.” A chill shot down my spine. De Marsac flung out his arm. “Seize them!” he called. “Bind them till the thongs cut into their flesh. Let one of you stand guard over them for the night.” He spun on his heel. His men rushed at us as though we were mad dogs. In the twinkling of an eye we were thrown to the floor and lashed hand and foot with thongs of deer hide. De Marsac halted at the door. “Tomorrow, at the break of day, they are to be hanged upon the nearest tree!” In the next breath he was lost in the dark. CHAPTER XIII THE SILVER-HAFTED DAGGER In another hour the inn was deserted. The scrivener and I lay huddled together on the floor. One of De Marsac’s crew remained guard over us—an ugly fellow with a face scarred with small-pox and earrings in his ears. He must have come from somewhere in the south of France for his language was heavier than the French in our part of the country. For a while he paced up and down the floor and glanced suspiciously at us at every turn. About midnight he began to yawn and stretch his arms over his head. Then he came and sat on a bench opposite us. The quiet of the place was like a balm for he fell into short naps. He arose and went to the other side of the table (where he could see us) and spread out his elbows. He yawned again and muttered something under his breath. Then little by little his head sank and before long it fell between his arms and he was snoring like the rumble of distant thunder. As gently as I could I shoved the scrivener in the ribs. “What’ll we do?” I whispered. His answer was a gentle touch on the arm. “Wait!” he said. I was more than uncomfortable. The thongs were cutting into my wrists and ankles. At my shoulders where the muscles were stretched back a numbness crept over me. The hardness of the floor made me wish that I could stand up and walk a bit. But the worst of all was the dryness that was parching my tongue and mouth.