Part 11 (1/2)

The troopers outside were very much astonished to find the heavy door closed and the two sentries dead on the terrace. They dismounted from their horses at the foot of the terrace and crowded about the door, upon which they beat with their pistols, at the same time shouting the names and t.i.tles of the officers within. Inside the great hall Marteau had once more taken command. In all this excitement Laure d'Aumenier had stood like a stone, apparently indifferent to the appeals of the four bound men on the floor and the Englishman in the chair that she cut the ropes with which they were bound, while the French officer was busy at the door. Perhaps that young peasant might have prevented her, but as a matter of fact, she made no attempt to answer their pleas.

She stood waiting and watching. Just as Marteau reentered the room the chief Russian officer shouted out a command. From where he lay on the floor his voice did not carry well and there was too much tumult outside for anyone to hear. In a second Marteau was over him.

”If you open your mouth again, monsieur,” he said fiercely, ”I shall have to choose between gagging and killing you, and I incline to the latter. And these other gentlemen may take notice. You, what are you named?”

”Pierre Lebois, sir,” answered the peasant.

”Can you fire a gun?”

”Give me a chance,” answered the young fellow. ”I've got people dead, yonder, to avenge.”

The brigands had left the swords and pistols of the officers on chairs, tables and the floor. There were eight pistols. Marteau gathered them up. The English baronet yielded one other, a huge, heavy, old-fas.h.i.+oned weapon.

”There are loopholes in the shutters yonder,” said the officer. ”Do you take that one, I will take the other. They will get away from the door in a moment and as soon as you can see them fire.”

”Mademoiselle,” said the Russian officer desperately, ”I shall have to report to the commander of the guard and he to the Czar that you gave aid and comfort to our enemies.”

”But what can I do?” asked the young woman. ”Monsieur Marteau could certainly shoot me if I attempted----”

”a.s.suredly,” said Marteau, smiling at her in a way anything but fierce.

It was that implicit trust in her that restrained her and saved him.

As a girl the young countess had been intensely fond of Jean Marteau.

He certainly appeared well in his present role before her. In the revulsion of feeling in finding him not a bully, not a traitor, but a devoted friend and servitor, he advanced higher in her estimation than ever before. Besides, the young woman was by no means so thoroughgoing a loyalist as her old uncle, for instance.

”I can see them now, monsieur,” said the young peasant from the peep-hole in the shutter.

Indeed, the men outside had broken away from the door, groups were running to and fro seeking lights and some other entrance. Taking aim at the nearest Marteau pulled the trigger and Pierre followed his example. The noise of the explosions was succeeded by a scream of anguish, one man was severely wounded and another killed. Something mysterious had happened while they had been off on the wild goose chase apparently, the Russians decided. The chateau had been seized, their officers had been made way with, it was held by the enemy.

”They can't be anything more than wandering peasants,” cried an imperious voice in Russian outside. ”I thought you had made thorough work with them all, Scoref,” continued the speaker. ”Your Cossacks must have failed to complete the job.”

”It will be the first time,” answered Scoref, the _hetman_ of the raiders. ”Look, the village burns!”

”Well, what's to be done now?” said the first voice.

”I don't know, Baron,” was the answer. ”Besieging castles is more in your line than in mine.”

”Shall we fire again, monsieur?” asked Pierre within.

”No,” was the answer. ”Remember we've only got eight shots and we must wait.”

”Let us have lights,” cried the commander of the squadron. ”Here, take one of those wagons and----”

In a few moments a bright fire was blazing in the courtyard.

”The shots came from those windows,” continued the Russian. ”Keep out of the way and---- Isn't that a window open up there?”

”It is, it is!” came the answer from a dozen throats.

All the talk being in Russian was, of course, not understood by the two Frenchmen.