s trumpets.

The room where so much turmoil had taken place, where so many hearts had
beaten with torrent-like emotions, where the awesome tragedy of revenge
and hate, of love and passion had been consummated, was now silent and
at peace.

The soldiers had gone: some in pursuit of the revellers, some with
Collot d'Herbois, others with Hebert and the calotin who was to ring the
Angelus.

Chauvelin, overcome with the intensity of his exultation and the agony
of the suspense which he had endured, sat, vaguely dreaming, hardly
conscious, but wholly happy and content. Fearless, too, for his triumph
was complete, and he cared not now if he lived or died.

He had lived long enough to see the complete annihilation and dishonour
of his enemy.

What had happened to Sir Percy Blakeney now, what to Marguerite, he
neither knew nor cared. No doubt the Englishman had picked himself up
and got away through the window or the door: he would be anxious to get
his wife out of the town as quickly as possible. The Angelus would
ring directly, the gates would be opened, the harbour made free to
everyone....

And Collot was a league outside Boulogne by now... a league nearer to
Paris.

So what mattered the humbled wayside English flower?--the damaged and
withered Scarlet Pimpernel?...

A slight noise suddenly caused him to start. He had been dreaming, no
doubt, having fallen into some kind of torpor, akin to sleep, after the
deadly and restless fatigue of the past four days. He certainly had been
unconscious of everything around him, of time and of place. But now he
felt fully awake.

And again he heard that slight noise, as if something or someone was
moving in the room.

He tried to peer into the darkness, but could distinguish nothing.
He rose and went to the door. It was still open, and close behind it
against the wall a small oil lamp was fixed which lit up the corridor.

Chauvelin detached the lamp and came back with it into the room. Just
as he did so there came to his ears the first sound of the little church
bell ringing the Angelus.

He stepped into the room holding the lamp high above his head; its
feeble rays fell full upon the brilliant figure of Sir Percy Blakeney.

He was smiling pleasantly, bowing slightly towards Chauvelin, and in his
hand he held the sheathed sword, the blade of which had been fashioned
in Toledo for Lorenzo Cenci, and the fellow of which was lying
now--Chauvelin himself knew not where.

"