sence of any preparation for assault, I took it that he would
remain where he was. Thereupon I backed into the diagonal corner, and
stood stock still.

After some period--hours or minutes, I knew not what, they were
interminable--Broussard spoke again. His voice sounded sharp, and
unnaturally loud.

"Who are you, and what do you want? I know you; is it Nortier, Lireux?"

"Hush, fool; dost not hear the tread of Vauban's men outside? You will
call them down upon us with your babble." They were stamping through the
passage as I spoke.

"Ah!" and there was a world of relief and incredulity in his lowered
tone. "Then you are not with Vauban? Who are you?" I made no reply.

During the long period of absolute and profound silence which succeeded I
had much time to reflect. I judged myself to be in an unused chamber,
which, if square, would be about thirty feet across--calculating by the
distance from the diagonal corner--if in fact Broussard lay in the
corner. There was but one opening, for I could hear the wind stirring
outside, and no draught came in. Did the window open on the street, or
on an inner court? There was no way of telling.

If it be true that men live in thoughts rather than in deeds, if the
changing phantoms of our brain carve deeper impressions than the petty
part we play with our hands, then, indeed, that frightful night would
form by far the longest chapter in the history of my soul.

Darkness, darkness, darkness; quivering, soundless, hopeless night.

I feared to move, and no sense save that of hearing bound me to the world
of living men. Living men? What place had I among them?

A party of drunken roisterers staggered beneath the window, singing
coarse songs and bandying their brutal jests. But it no longer
interested me to know the window opened on a street.

Hour after hour plodded in slow procession through the night.

Outside, a clattering vehicle whipped past over the rough stones, the
driver swearing at his team. The day was coming at last. Did I wish it?
Perhaps the night were kinder, for it at least obscured my misery. I
almost prayed the darkness might last.

CHAPTER XI

THE DAWN AND THE DUSK

Gradually, so gradually the change could hardly be observed, the inner
grating of the window became visible; the chinks between the edges of
the stones assumed distinctness. A ghostly blotch grew into a fact
upon the floor. A leaden hue, less black than the pulsing s