drawbridge out--my men? If so, all was well. My eye fell on
the revolvers, and I seized one; and paused to listen in the doorway of
the outer room. To listen, say I? Yes, and to get my breath: and I tore
my shirt and twisted a strip of it round my bleeding arm; and stood
listening again. I would have given the world to hear Sapt's voice. For
I was faint, spent, and weary. And that wild-cat Rupert Hentzau was yet
at large in the Castle. Yet, because I could better defend the narrow
door at the top of the stairs than the wider entrance to the room, I
dragged myself up the steps, and stood behind it listening.

What was the sound? Again a strange one for the place and time. An
easy, scornful, merry laugh--the laugh of young Rupert Hentzau! I could
scarcely believe that a sane man would laugh. Yet the laugh told me that
my men had not come; for they must have shot Rupert ere now, if they had
come. And the clock struck half-past two! My God! The door had not been
opened! They had gone to the bank! They had not found me! They had gone
by now back to Tarlenheim, with the news of the King's death--and mine.
Well, it would be true before they got there. Was not Rupert laughing in
triumph?

For a moment, I sank, unnerved, against the door. Then I started up
alert again, for Rupert cried scornfully:

"Well, the bridge is there! Come over it! And in God's name, let's see
Black Michael. Keep back, you curs! Michael, come and fight for her!"

If it were a three-cornered fight, I might yet bear my part. I turned
the key in the door and looked out.

CHAPTER 19

Face to Face in the Forest

For a moment I could see nothing, for the glare of lanterns and torches
caught me full in the eyes from the other side of the bridge. But soon
the scene grew clear: and it was a strange scene. The bridge was in its
place. At the far end of it stood a group of the duke's servants; two or
three carried the lights which had dazzled me, three or four held pikes
in rest. They were huddled together; their weapons were protruded before
them; their faces were pale and agitated. To put it plainly, they
looked in as arrant a fright as I have seen men look, and they gazed
apprehensively at a man who stood in the middle of the bridge, sword in
hand. Rupert Hentzau was in his trousers and shirt; the white linen
was stained with blood, but his easy, buoyant pose told me that he was
himself either not touched at all or merely scratched. There he stoo