THE DOOR IN THE CLIFF
“BACK! Back!” I cried to Fronsac, who appeared at the stair-head,
bearing the torch, and I followed down close at his heels, dragging
Roquefort after me, cursing and striking at me madly with his fists,
but too weakened by his wound to do any great damage. In two strides we
were at the bottom.
“Your scarf!” I called to Fronsac, and snatched it from him. “Now help
me here,” and we twisted Roquefort’s arms behind him like a baby’s and
lashed them tight together. Then I set him down on the lowest step,--a
horrible sight, the blood caked in his hair and about his face,
drivelling, cursing, half-conscious. I could guess what an effort it
had cost him to drag himself down the stair and give the alarm, and I
found myself beginning to admire him.
I turned again to the door in an agony of despair. To be caught here
like rats in a trap, with success so near! But to penetrate this door!
I saw Fronsac draw Mademoiselle to him and hold her close against his
breast. They had abandoned hope, then! I looked at Roquefort with fiery
eyes, hating him suddenly with a white hate.
“At least,” I said between my teeth, “you will be dead long ere they
reach us here. That shall be your reward for calling them. I swear
that, assassin!”
He seemed to understand, and glared at me fiercely.
“This way! Rescue!” he shouted hoarsely. His voice was drowned in this
cavern where we were, but as if in answer there came another great
crash upon the tower door above us.
It seemed for a moment that Roquefort’s scoundrels must be tumbling
down the stair upon us. But the door held, and as I remembered how
strongly it was built, I knew it would be no little task to break it
through. The crash was repeated as we stood there listening--then
a third time. I fancied I could hear the door splitting under this
determined onslaught. Fronsac and Mademoiselle had forgotten all the
world except each other. He strained her to him and stood looking
down into her eyes, drinking in all the love they revealed to him
unquestioningly in this last, desperate moment, whose terror banished
coquetry. Had I Claire so, I too might have been content to die. Again
came the crash upon the door, and again my eyes sought Roquefort’s face.
And then in an instant I remembered! What a fool I had been not to
think of it before! Pray Heaven it was not already too late! The keys!
I sprang upon him, merciless as a wolf, and with savage hands tore his
doublet from his breast. He seemed to understand what I was after, and
spat at me like some mad thing and tried to throw me off, then sank
back exhausted, his lips white with froth.
In a moment my fingers had found a chain about his neck. I dragged it
forth, and at the end were two keys. So the fox had kept always by
him a secret means of escape from his den should the other fail him!
I lifted the chain from his neck and the keys were mine. For a breath
my hands were trembling so I could scarce hold them, but I gripped my
manhood back to me and turned to the door. Were they the keys? They
must be! I fitted them to the holes--they slipped in easily--the bolts
flew back--the door opened.
A stream of fresh air rushed in upon us, and I could see again the
sweet stars in the deep heaven. The cliff dropped sheer away beneath
us. I could see no semblance of foothold, no trace of the steps I had
thought were there; yet the descent must be made. I knotted one end of
the line tight to the heaviest bolt, then turned to the two who were
still lost in each other.
“Come, Mademoiselle,” I said gently, “you must go first.”
“Go!” cried Fronsac, waking as from a dream. “Go whither, Marsan?”
I pointed to the open door--the rope.
“And you have opened it?” he asked, amazed. “What witchcraft!”
“We must hasten,” I said. “They are preparing some surprise for us
over our heads yonder. Come. We will knot one end of this rope so
that Mademoiselle can place her feet in it. Then, standing erect and
steadying herself by holding to the rope, we will lower her quite
safely to the ground.”
I had made the loop even as I was speaking, and threw it a little over
the cliff edge.
“Come, Mademoiselle,” I said again.
But she drew back with a shuddering cry as she saw the abyss that
yawned before her.
“Oh, no!” she cried. “Not that! That is too fearful! I can never do
that!”
It was not a time for soft words. Our lives could not be sacrificed to
a woman’s nerves, and I steeled my heart.
“Mademoiselle,” I said, “you are holding all our lives in your hand. In
a moment a crowd of ruffians will be through that door up yonder--then
it will be too late! No daughter of the Comte de Cadillac could be a
coward!”
“Marsan!” cried Fronsac, “you go too far!”
But the girl took her hands from before her face and stopped him with a
gesture.
“No,” she said quite calmly, “M. de Marsan is right! I thank him for
his frankness. No daughter of the Comte de Cadillac could be a coward!
I am ready, Monsieur!”
My heart warmed with admiration of her as she advanced quite steadily
to the cliff’s edge, sat down without shrinking, and adjusted her feet
within the loop.
“That is good,” I said. “There is no danger whatever, Mademoiselle, so
long as you hold the rope firmly and keep your face to the rock. Come,
my friend.”
I could see her shudder as we swung her out over the abyss, and I admit
that my own nerves were not wholly steady, but she held tightly to the
rope and in an instant was out of sight. Down and down we lowered her
slowly and carefully, I keeping an eye on Roquefort, meanwhile, to see
that he essayed no mischief. But he sat quite still on the step where
I had placed him, seemingly only half-conscious, and watched us with
bloodshot eyes. Yet I was certain that some catastrophe was hanging
over us. There had been an ominous silence for some moments at the
tower door, but I knew that his men would not abandon him so tamely.
What trick they were preparing I could not even guess, but at last the
weight lifted from the rope, and we knew that Mademoiselle, at least,
was safely down.
“What next, my friend?” asked Fronsac. “What of him?” and he glanced at
Roquefort. “Has he not lived long enough?”
I looked at him as he sat drivelling there. Yet I had thought never to
kill a man but in a fair fight. And on the instant a sudden inspiration
flashed into my brain.
“I have it!” I cried. “We will lower him down the cliff! We will take
him prisoner to M. le Comte to deal with as he chooses! There would be
a vengeance for you!”
I could see the dare-devil in Fronsac take fire at the words. In
a moment he had pulled up the rope, and we were knotting it under
Roquefort’s arms. He resisted vaguely, weakly, like a drunken man, but
we dragged him to the edge and pushed him over. He cried out hoarsely
as he fell, and I thought for a breath that his weight would drag us
over with him, but the rope caught in a crevice of the rock and gave
us time to brace ourselves. Then we lowered him rapidly, rasping and
scraping against the cliff, but there was no time to think of that. At
last the rope hung taut.
“You next, my friend,” I said to Fronsac on the instant. He would have
protested, but I pushed him to the edge. “Hasten. Think who awaits you
below.”
Without a word he let himself carefully over the edge. I could see the
rope quivering under the double weight, and noted with anxious eyes how
it chafed against the edge of the rock. The moments passed, and at last
I saw that he too was down.
I stooped to test the rope where the rock had chafed it, when there
came a sudden hideous roar from overhead, a crash of splitting
timbers--they had fired a petard against the door--had blown it down--I
understood now the reason of their silence!
There was no time to hesitate. I caught the rope and threw myself
over the cliff. My knees scraped against the rock, the rope burned
deep into my fingers, still smarting from the dagger-cut. But I held
fast, praying that they might not see the rope for yet a moment--yet a
moment--yet a moment!
Some one tugged at it from above, then it suddenly gave way. I felt
myself falling--I grasped at the cliff--I seemed to choke--and the
world turned black about me.