e observation, or--if that were too much to expect--was in a
capital posture whether for parley or defense. So thinking, he drew
his sword and tried to set his back against the door. To his surprise,
it yielded behind his weight; and though he turned in a moment,
continued to swing back on oiled and noiseless hinges, until it stood
wide open on a black interior. When things fall out opportunely for
the person concerned, he is not apt to be critical about the how or
why, his own immediate personal convenience seeming a sufficient reason
for the strangest oddities and resolutions in our sublunary things; and
so Denis, without a moment's hesitation, stepped within and partly
closed the door behind him to conceal his place of refuge. Nothing was
further from his thoughts than to close it altogether; but for some
inexplicable reason--perhaps by a spring or a weight--the ponderous
mass of oak whipped itself out of his fingers and clanked to, with a
formidable rumble and a noise like the falling of an automatic bar.

The round, at that very moment, debouched upon the terrace and
proceeded to summon him with shouts and curses. He heard them
ferreting in the dark corners; the stock of a lance even rattled along
the outer surface of the door behind which he stood; but these
gentlemen were in too high a humor to be long delayed, and soon made
off down a corkscrew pathway which had escaped Denis's observation, and
passed out of sight and hearing along the battlements of the town.

Denis breathed again. He gave them a few minutes' grace for fear of
accidents, and then groped about for some means of opening the door and
slipping forth again. The inner surface was quite smooth, not a
handle, not a molding, not a projection of any sort. He got his
finger-nails round the edges and pulled, but the mass was immovable.
He shook it, it was as firm as a rock. Denis de Beaulieu frowned and
gave vent to a little noiseless whistle. What ailed the door? he
wondered. Why was it open? How came it to shut so easily and so
effectually after him? There was something obscure and underhand about
all this that was little to the young man's fancy. It looked like a
snare; and yet who could suppose a snare in such a quiet by-street and
in a house of so prosperous and even noble an exterior? And yet--snare
or no snare, intentionally or unintentionally--here he was, prettily
trapped; and for the life of him he could see no way out of it again.