"Allow me then to make my point clear. There are at this moment a score of men of the National Guard in the room above your head. Every one of them goes to the guillotine if they allow their prisoner to escape; every one of them receives a reward of ten thousand livres the day they capture the Scarlet Pimpernel. A good spur for vigilance, what? But that is not all," Chauvelin went on quite steadily, seeing that Sir Percy had apparently become thoughtful and absorbed. "The men are under the command of Captain Boyer, and he understands that every day at a certain hour--seven in the evening, to be precise--I will be with him and interrogate him as to the welfare of the prisoner. If--mark me, Sir Percy!--if on any one day I do not appear before him at that hour, his orders are to shoot the prisoner on sight. . . ." The word was scarce out of his mouth; it broke in a hoarse spasm. Sir Percy had him by the throat, shook him indeed as he would a rat. "You cur!" he said in an ominous whisper, his face quite close now to that of his enemy, his jaw set, his eyes no longer good-humoured and mildly scornful, but burning with the fire of a mighty, unbridled wrath. "You damned--insolent--miserable cur! As there is a Heaven above us----" Then suddenly his grip relaxed, the whole face changed as if an unseen hand had swept away the fierce lines of anger and of hate. The eyes softened beneath their heavy lids, the set lips broke into a mocking smile. He let go his hold of the Terrorist's throat; and the unfortunate man, panting and breathless, fell heavily against the wall. He tried to steady himself as best he could, but his knees were shaking, and faint and helpless, he finally collapsed upon the nearest bench, the while Sir Percy straightened out his tall figure, with unruffled composure rubbed his slender hands one against the other, as if to free them from dust, and said, with gentle, good-humoured sarcasm: "Do put your cravat straight, man! You look a disgusting object!" He dragged the corner of a bench forward, sat astride upon it, and waited with perfect sang-froid, spy-glass in hand, while Chauvelin mechanically readjusted the set of his clothes. "That's better," he said approvingly. "Just the bow at the back of your neck . . . a little more to the right . . . now your cuffs. . . . Ah, you look quite tidy again! . . . a perfect picture, I vow, my dear M. Chambertin, of elegance and of a well-regulated mind!" "Sir Percy----!" Chauvelin broke in with a vicious snarl. "I entreat you to accept my apologies," the other rejoined with utmost courtesy. "I was on the verge of losing my temper, which we in England would call demmed bad form. I'll not transgress again. I pray you, proceed with what you were saying. So interesting--demmed interesting! You were talking about murdering a woman in cold blood, I think----" "In hot blood, Sir Percy," Chauvelin rejoined more firmly. "Blood fired by thoughts of a just revenge."