We went down the stair into another room even more luxuriously furnished. The great bed stood at one side with curtains drawn. One almost expected to see a small hand pluck them aside and to hear a shrill voice demand the meaning of our intrusion, or to be suddenly confronted by that old gallant Favras, oath on lip and sword in hand. Here there were no windows, only narrow slits sufficient to admit air and light but not wide enough to permit of assault from without. We made a careful circuit of the apartment, but found nothing which could by any possibility serve as a rope. “There is one more chance,” said M. le Comte, and led the way to the bottom story. This had been divided into two rooms, one a sort of vestibule into which the outer door opened and from which the stair ascended, and the other a store-room. The vestibule was quite empty, and the store-room contained nothing but a pile of rotting casks and broken bottles. My companion looked at them with a whimsical countenance. “The fair lady evidently did not lack refreshment,” he said. “I would she had had the forethought to leave us a few bottles. I am afraid,” he added, turning back to the vestibule, “that the only possible exit for us is through that door. There are no windows in this story, nor in the one above. To jump from the third story is to tempt death--or at least a multitude of broken bones. For myself, I prefer to face the enemy.” “We might make a rope from the tapestries,” I suggested. “They are rotten with mildew,” he objected; and indeed when we tested them we found them ready to fall to pieces at a touch. “Our situation is not so desperate,” he continued, as we climbed slowly up the stair again. “They will have to starve us out, since they have no cannon with which to batter down the wall, and that will take two or three days at the least. Many things may happen in that time.” But though he spoke hopefully, I fancied his voice did not ring quite true. When we reached the platform he blew out the candle, placed it carefully in a crevice of the wall, then went to his wife where she stood leaning against the parapet, put an arm about her and drew her to him. “Well?” she asked, smiling up at him. “We are not yet out of the woods,” he said; “but, as I have just told Tavernay, there is no pressing danger. They will have to besiege us in form. Perhaps we may yet catch them napping.” I had approached Mlle. de Chambray, drawn by an irresistible attraction--which indeed I made no effort to resist. “What is your opinion, M. de Tavernay?” she asked, as I leaned against the wall beside her. “I confess,” I answered gloomily, “that I see little hope of escape, unless we can sprout wings and fly away. For you, mademoiselle, that would not be so great a miracle; but I fear I am too far below the angels to hope for such deliverance.” “It is not the angels alone who have wings,” she retorted, her face lighting with a smile. “I have heard of other spirits similarly equipped.”