your men well, friend Desgas . . . of the
sort who would enjoy that type of sport--eh? We must see that Scarlet
Pimpernel wither a bit--what?--shrink and tremble, eh? . . . before we
finally . . ." He made an expressive gesture, whilst he laughed a low,
evil laugh, which filled Marguerite's soul with sickening horror.

"Choose your men well, Citoyen Desgas," he said once more, as he led his
secretary finally out of the room.

CHAPTER XXVII ON THE TRACK

Never for a moment did Marguerite Blakeney hesitate. The last sounds
outside the "Chat Gris" had died away in the night. She had heard Desgas
giving orders to his men, and then starting off towards the fort, to get
a reinforcement of a dozen more men: six were not thought sufficient to
capture the cunning Englishman, whose resourceful brain was even more
dangerous than his valour and his strength.

Then a few minutes later, she heard the Jew's husky voice again,
evidently shouting to his nag, then the rumble of wheels, and noise of a
rickety cart bumping over the rough road.

Inside the inn, everything was still. Brogard and his wife, terrified of
Chauvelin, had given no sign of life; they hoped to be forgotten, and
at any rate to remain unperceived: Marguerite could not even hear their
usual volleys of muttered oaths.

She waited a moment or two longer, then she quietly slipped down the
broken stairs, wrapped her dark cloak closely round her and slipped out
of the inn.

The night was fairly dark, sufficiently so at any rate to hide her dark
figure from view, whilst her keen ears kept count of the sound of the
cart going on ahead. She hoped by keeping well within the shadow of the
ditches which lined the road, that she would not be seen by Desgas' men,
when they approached, or by the patrols, which she concluded were still
on duty.

Thus she started to do this, the last stage of her weary journey, alone,
at night, and on foot. Nearly three leagues to Miquelon, and then on to
the Pere Blanchard's hut, wherever that fatal spot might be, probably
over rough roads: she cared not.

The Jew's nag could not get on very fast, and though she was wary with
mental fatigue and nerve strain, she knew that she could easily keep
up with it, on a hilly road, where the poor beast, who was sure to be
half-starved, would have to be allowed long and frequent rests. The road
lay some distance from the sea, bordered on either side by shrubs and
stunted trees, sparsely cov