emoiselle," he muttered as he glanced around him
with satisfaction; "all is ready here. And now for the ogre." Taking
up the arquebus he looked at the priming, and made his way cautiously
to the house.

CHAPTER IX

THE WHITE MASK

It is necessary to hark back a little now to the moment when Torquato
Trotto, having given his instructions to Piero, went into the house.
The stairway was empty, for both I and my charge were with La Marmotte,
and the Italian ran upstairs with a footfall as light as that of a cat.
On reaching the landing he stopped for a second, glanced around him,
with the same feline caution that marked all his movements, and then,
creeping forward on tiptoe, went along a corridor leading to a wing of
the house.

At the extreme end of this gallery was a door, at which Trotto knocked
softly. From within a strident voice said: "Come in!" Then followed
an exclamation of pain, and a free oath.

Trotto smiled, shrugged his shoulders, as only an Italian can, pushed
open the door, and entered the chamber. The spear-shaped flames of two
tall candles but half lit the room, making a circle of wavering light.
Beyond all was in uncertain gloom, through which one could dimly see
the old tapestry and massive furniture of bygone years.

Where the light was brightest was an easy-chair, and there sat Simon of
Orrain, with his bandaged right arm resting on a cushion, placed on a
low table drawn close to him. As Trotto entered he looked up with a
snarl.

"What is it? Did I not say I was to be left alone? Curse this arm!"

"Ah, excellency," and Trotto glanced at the throbbing arm, "you should
have waited for Aramon's return, or taken us with you." But Simon
broke in: "I tell you, Trotto, the plan was perfect, and if it had not
been for the accident of that villain's coming our bird would have been
here by this. Even when he came, if La Crotte had but stood his
ground--but there! Give me some of that wine. My blood is red hot,
and my throat on fire with the pain of this wound!"

Torquato Trotto filled a cup from a flagon that lay on the table near
the Vidame. Simon took it from him with his left hand, drained it, and
flung it from him, so that it struck the wainscoting of the wall, and
fell with a crash on the floor.

"La Crotte shall hang for this," he went on savagely. "The cur! the
coward!"

"You will make your wound worse, excellency. Be calm! There is time
for things to mend."

"Time!