"He will come, I swear!" Chauvelin said firmly, as if in answer to his own thoughts. Inside the room, Marguerite has heard every word of this colloquy. Its meaning is clear enough. Clear, and horrible! Death awaits her at the hands of those abominable ruffians--here--within half an hour--unless . . . Her thoughts are becoming confused; she cannot concentrate. Frightened? No, she is not frightened. She has looked death in the face before now. That time in Boulogne. And there are worse things than death. . . . There is, for instance, the fear that she might never see her husband again . . . in this life . . . There is only half an hour or less than that . . . and . . . and he might not come. . . . She prays that he might not come. But, if he does, then what chance has he? My God, what chance? And her tortured mind conjures up visions of his courage, his coolness, his amazing audacity and luck. . . . She thinks and thinks . . . if he does not come . . . and if he does. . . . A distant church clock strikes the half-hour . . . a short half-hour now . . . The evening is sultry. Another storm is threatening, and the sun has tinged the heat-mist with red. The air smells foul, as in the midst of a huge, perspiring crowd. And through the heat, the lull, above the hideous sounds of those ruffians outside her door, there is a rumbling noise as of distant, unceasing thunder. The city is in travail. Then suddenly Boyer, the Captain of the ruffians, exclaims loudly: "Let me finish with the aristo, citizen Chauvelin! I want to join in the fun." And the door of her room is torn open by a savage, violent hand. The window behind Marguerite is open, and she, facing the door, clings with both hands to the sill. Her cheeks bloodless, her eyes glowing, her head erect, she waits, praying with all her might for courage . . . only courage. The ruffianly captain in his tattered, mud-stained uniform, stands in the doorway--for one moment only. The next, Chauvelin has elbowed him out of the way, and in his turn faces the prisoner--the innocent woman whom he has pursued with such relentless hatred. Marguerite prays with all her might, and does not flinch. Not for one second. Death stands there before her in the guise of this man's vengeful lust, which gleams in his pale eyes. Death is there waiting for her, under the guise of those ignoble soldiers in the scrubby rags, with their muskets held in stained, filthy hands. Courage--only courage! The power to die as _he_ would wish her to . . . could be but know! Chauvelin speaks to her; she does not hear. There is a mighty buzzing in her ears as of men shouting--shouting what, she does not know, for she is still praying for courage. Chauvelin has ceased talking. Then it must be the end. Thank God! she has had the courage not to speak and not to flinch. Now she closes her eyes, for there is a red mist before her and she feels that she might fall into it--straight into that mist. §6