On that late September evening two men stood upon the lonely shore of a picturesque corner of Brittany looking out to sea where a graceful schooner, catching upon her sails the last lingering glow of the setting sun, was fast disappearing behind the horizon line. One of these men was tall above the average, and his height and breadth of shoulders were accentuated not only by the dark many-caped coat which he wore but also by proximity to the small, wizened figure of his companion, an old man whose white hair was tossed about by the wind, and whose pale blue eyes had that half-vacant gaze peculiar by daylight to those who habitually burn the midnight oil. He it was who first broke the silence between the two of them, and he spoke as if in response to a quick, short sigh that had escaped the younger man's lips.
"I should be happier, milord," he said gently, "if you yourself were on board that schooner now."
The other made no reply, gave the signal for turning away from the shore, and anon the two men walked slowly back along the coast toward the distant town. They did not speak: each was buried in his own thoughts. It was only when the lights of the little city could be seen twinkling in the near distance that they came to a halt; the older man grasped his companion's slender hand with a gesture that was almost one of affection.
"Give it up, milord," he said earnestly. "God knows you have done more than enough in the defence of the innocent and the weak. The soil of France has been made purer and finer since your foot hath trodden it. But now it is enough. You have earned your rest, you deserve to enjoy your happiness in peace, and to think of your own precious life and of your own safety."
But the other shook his head and smiled somewhat wistfully.
"And," he said, "what about yourself, my dear Lescar?"
"Oh! I am safe enough," the old man replied. "They all know me for a harmless fool round about here. And my profession is my safeguard. Even the most hot-headed patriot knows that the country could not afford to send all its doctors to the guillotine."
"You are right there," the other assented. "Well, God guard you."
Dr. Lescar watched the tall, athletic figure until the fast-spreading gloom gathered it in its embrace, then he continued his way in the direction of St.-Jean. He lived in a little house just inside the city walls, and had in truth made a shrewd remark when he said that even the wildest revolutionaries in France would not think of sending all their doctors to the guillotine. Sickness, epidemics born of hunger and of cold had followed in the wake of all the other miseries which a set of self-seeking and cruel autocrats had brought upon the land, and in St.-Jean itself Dr. Lescar had been kept busy. No one thought of molesting him, no one hitherto had been fiendish enough to suspect or to denounce him. They knew well enough that death would take a far heavier toll in the city if it were not for his unremitting devotion and undoubted skill.
The old man had met the English milord on one of those errands of mercy the pursuit of which formed the life's business of both these men. They were destined to understand one another; the self-sacrifice of the gallant Scarlet Pimpernel found its counterpart in the unselfish herosim of the obscure country doctor, and friendship born of mutual esteem had sprung up between them over the alleviations of several miseries. It was an impoverished family of gentle birth, named La Forest, suspected of counter-revolutionary tendencies and recently denounced to the Committee of Public Safety, which was even at this hour on the way to England on board the schooner which Sir Percy Blakeney and Dr. Lescar had been watching till she was out of sight. The latter had befriended them whilst he had the power and the Scarlet Pimpernel had saved them from certain death; but the old man felt heartsick when he thought of the equally certain danger to which the noble-hearted English milord exposed himself by remaining even a day longer in this country where a hundred enemy eyes were on the watch for him.
Dr. Lescar saw nothing of his English friend for several days after the departure of the schooner; vaguely he hoped that milord had taken his earnest advice and had gone back to England. He himself was more than usually busy that autumn; in the wake of early frosts and heavy rains had come an epidemic of lung and throat trouble, and the doctor was up and about seeing patients all the day and half the night through. It was only in the evenings that he indulged in an hour or two's recreation in the Taverne des Trois Rats, where sundry worthy tradesmen of the city were wont to congregate and to gossip over a muddy cup of coffee and a rank pipe of stale tobacco and strive to forget for awhile the miseries which the high ideals of Liverty, Equality, and Fraternity had brought upon them all. It was a tavern that was much frequented by sailors and fisherfolk, not to mention the numerous smugglers who plied their dangerous trade with some immunity along the lonely bit of coast.
On this occasion there was a group of that fraternity engaged in animated conversation at one end of the room, whilst Dr. Lescar and his friends sat together over their coffee at the other. The talk here had drifted to the ever-interesting topic of the Scarlet Pimpernel. The rescue of the La Forests under the very nose of the local Revolutionary Tribunal was still a nine days' wonder. Dr. Lescar was known to have attended one of the children the very day before the entire family had been spirited away on board an English schooner that had brought in a cargo of smuggled Bradford cloth and never been suspected of belonging to the noted English spy and his amazing league of bravos.
"You must have seen the Scarlet Pimpernel, Doctor," one of the men said jovially; "you must have seen him! Come! there's no harm in seeing a spy- not for a man like you who would be too busy to trouble about denouncing anyone, as it would be the duty of an ordinary citizen to do."
"I may have seen the Scarlet Pimpernel," Dr. Lescar replied cooly, "or I may not. How can I tell? seeing that we none of us know what he is like, or who he is."
"You must know if an English aristo visited the La Forests," the other persisted, "you were in and out of their house."
"Citizen Bausset is right," here interposed a mean-looking, sharp-featured man who was sitting alone at a small table close by. "You must have seen or at least suspected something, Citizen Doctor."
He spoke sharply and with a certain indefinite air of authority which at once drew the eyes of all those present upon him.
"Do you not think it strange," he went on with a note of dry sarcasm in his thin, shrill voice and addressing the group of men who sat at the table nearest him, "Do you not think it strange, Citizens, that Dr. Lescar, who was an intimate of those traitors La Forest --"
"Who says he was an intimate?" interposed Bausset, throwing himself at once into the breach in order to defend his friend.
"I say so," the other retorted quickly. "He attended them without demanding his just fees--"
"More honour to him," one or two broke in warmly.
"Perhaps. I am not impugning him for that. I merely endeavour to prove that the citizen doctor was intimate enough with the La Forests to give them his time and his trouble for nothing; and I therefore assert that he must have been aware of the plot hatched by those English spies to cheat the laws of our country and to aid a set of damnable traitors to escape from justice."
The man never once raised his voice, nor did he make a single gesture of wrath or of authority; nevertheless, when he had finished speaking no one attempted to contradict him. A silence fell on them all, and furtive looks that spoke of hidden terrors were hastily exchanged, whilst --almost imperceptibly-- those who had sat nearest to the little doctor edged their chairs away.
The only one in the room who appeared wholly unconcerned was Dr. Lescar himself. He continued to pull at his long-stemmed pipe and to sip his coffee with perfect quietude. After awhile he said simply:
"My country will judge of mine actions: I have done naught of which any true patriot need be ashamed." Then he turned and deliberately faced the man with the thin voice and added calmly: "Every man, woman, and child in and about this city knows me. You, Citizen, are a stranger here. Will you not tell us your name, and by whose authority you come here amongst us and impugn the loyalty of the citizens of St.-Jean?"
The other appeared to hesitate for a moment, then with quiet deliberation he unbuttoned his coat and displayed the tricolour scarf of officialdom which was wound around his waist. With his long, thin fingers he tapped the scarf and said dryly: "This is my authority, Citizen Doctor. My name is Péret, at your service."
"Then, Citizen Péret, I pray you be more explicit," Lescar rejoined calmly, "and frame your accusation against me in a manner that I can understand."
"I am not accusing you, Citizen Doctor," Péret retorted more amicably; "but you should understand how anxious the government is to get hold of that English spy whose machinations have fostered the spirit of rebellion and treachery in France. We cannot leave a stone unturned to track him to his hiding place. My accusations were not directed against you. I was only seeking for the truth."
This change of front, from truculence to conciliation, had at once a cheering influence upon the company; a general sense of relief loosened every tongue. Dr. Lescar was very popular in the city; there was scarce a family dwelling in it who did not owe him a debt of gratitude, and every man in the room was conscious of a vague feeling of satisfaction at the thought that the good doctor of St.-Jean was too important a personage to be dealt with summarily by the tyrannical Committees of Public Safety.
In the silence that ensued in the immediate entourage of Lescar and Péret the hum of conversation at the farther end of the room became more audible. Here a group of rough-looking customers had apparently lent an ear to the wordy passage of arms whilst continuing an exciting game of dominoes. They were an ugly crowd, unwashed and loud of speech, and al of them were drinking hard; some of them spoke French, with the throaty accent that hails from Spain or Portugal, others only spoke their own language amongst themselves --English, Dutch, Norwegian -- whilst those who were obviously French, equally obviously hailed from Marseilles. All of them had that unmistakable air about them that proclaims the rough seafaring life, and not only that but also the unavowed trade, the traffic which calls for constant risks, perilous adventure, and familiarity with crime. Here, from out the general murmur made up of foreign oaths and truculent arguments, the voices of two or three Frenchmen detached themselves more clearly. They were mariners by profession and had the rich colouring, dark, crisp hair, and massive build peculiar to the sons of Provence. Fine, sturdy fellows they were and would in truth have been goodly to look at with their flashing eyes and full red lips and the gold earrings in their ears, were it not for the glowering, surly, at times coldly cruel expressions which would suddenly spread over their features if they were contradicted, or thought themselves insulted.
"I tell you, Pierre-Hercule," one of them said to the other, "that you'll gain far more by speaking than by holding your tongue."
"'Tis not for me to speak," Pierre-Hercule retorted with an oath. "Dieudonné here knows more about it than I do."
And he half turned to the third man who sat close beside him, a man whose face was disfigured by a scar that ran straight between his brows and gave his a peculiarly hard, obstinate expression; his watery eyes and hanging lips suggested that he had already drunk more than was good for him, and at Pierre-Hercule's words he indulged in a stream of meaningless oaths.
"I don't want to give that fool of a doctor away," he murmured thickly. "He was very good to my little wench once when she was sick; so hold thy tongue, Pierre-Hercule, and thou too, Jean-Paul, for I've a good mind to break thy jaw to stop thy cackling."
This was too good an opening for a quarrel and the beginnings for a fight to be lightly passed over and the next few minutes were taken up with fierce expletives and provocative cries on the one side and sundry attempts at peace-making on the part of those nigh.
At the other end of the room Citizen Péret was apparently asleep; it was only Lescar and his friend Bausset who had noted that at the last speech from the Marseillais, the representative of the Committee of Public Safety had opened one eye and then turned slightly toward the smugglers, the better to hear what next they would say.
"Thou'rt a fool, Dieudonné," Pierre-Hercule resumed after the quarrel had been hastily patched up. "Dost forget that thine own neck is in danger, all the while that thou choosest to hold thy tongue?"
Dieudonné put his hand to his throat and swallowed hard. The prospect was obviously an unpleasant one.
"Anyway," he said gruffly, "it is too late. The Englishman must be gone by now."
"Then 'tis ten thousand francs thou has lost, my friend," Jean-Paul retorted dryly, "for that is the reward for the capture of the Englishman."
"Not only ten thousand francs," here broke in the thin, shrill voice of Citizen Péret, "but most probably thy head as well."
Unseen and silent, he had edged up to the table around which the smugglers sat; at sound of his voice the three Provençals had jumped to their feet and hastily made the sign of the Cross --one may deal in illicit goods and be pious for all that. The foreigners gazed up at Péret in surly silence.
"Yes! thy head," Péret went on sharply. "Dost not know that to traffic with an enemy of thy country is treason and punishable by death?"
"How did I know that he was an enemy of my country?" Dieudonné retorted savagely.
"Every Englishman is an enemy of France. We are at war with England."
"Not every Englishman, Citizen," Dieudonné rejoined. "Our own government up in Paris has bought Bradford cloth from one or two English traders whom I could name, and--"
"That is beside the point," Péret interposed hastily. "According to thine own showing, thou didst meet an English spy and failed to denounce him."
"How should I know he was an English spy?"
"The description of that abominable Scarlet Pimpernel has been circulated far and wide. Every seafaring man, every coastguardsman, every loyal citizen should know him at a glance."
"That's just it," Dieudonné rejoined with a loud oath. "The Englishman of whom I speak could not possibly be the Scarlet Pimpernel. The Scarlet Pimpernel is tall; the Englishman I saw was short, wizened, a shrimp, what? He has a sick wife and two miserable brats whom Dr. Lescar over there has attended to my knowledge the last three days."
"Is this true?" Péret exclaimed with a snarl, and wheeled round abruptly to face the old doctor.
"I attend all those who are sick," Lescar replied, "but I have no recollection of the people of whom Citizen Dieudonné is speaking."
"We'll soon see about that," Péret retorted, sneering. "Where did that Englishman lodge?" he asked once more, turning to Dieudonné.
Dieudonné hesitated palpably for a moment or two. Murmurs of "shame on thee" came from various parts of the room, and Bausset, the friend of Lescar, swore a savage oath. But the authority of the tricolour scarf, the threat which it implied, the ever-present dread of accusations, of summary trials and of the guillotine, quickly smothered any generous impulse and after a second's pause Dieudonné replied sullenly:
"In the last house in the Rue des Pipots. The end house before you come to the edge of the cliff."
Whereupon Péret without further remark called out loudly:
"Citizen Corporal! Hey, there!"
A couple of soldiers immediately entered the room; unbeknown to the company, they had apparently all along been on guard somewhere close by. Behind them in the doorway worthy Citizen Liard, landlord of Les Trois Rats, stood wringing his hands, lamenting at this insult put upon his loyal house.
"Citizen Corporal," Péret commanded, "go at once to the barracks, and ask the captain to detail a dozen men to accompany you. Your orders are to go to the end house in the Rue des Pipots and to bring every person you find inside that house here to me. Go quickly!"
The soldiers saluted and went out of the room; their rapid, measured steps were heard to cross the narrow passage and then resounded down the cobbled road. In the public room an ominous silence had fallen over the assembly. Men had drawn their chairs closer together, casting obsequious glances on Péret, or servilely offering him food and drink. The fear of death was upon them; one or two had made a furtive attempt to sneak out of the room, but a peremptory word from the Terrorist glued them to the spot.
"Every man," he said curtly, "who goes out of this room without my permission will be a dead man to-morrow. Citizen Landlord, I make you responsible for everyone in this house."
Only the little doctor remained perfectly calm, sipping his coffee and now and again giving a pull at his long-stemmed pipe. But with the exception of Bausset no one spoke with him; they had edged their chairs away, as far from his as they could.
In the far corner of the room the company of smugglers had become singularly quiet. It seemed as if they felt the magnetism of the impending tragedy. Now and then a murmur from one of them would break the silence, but it was quickly suppressed by the others. Dieudonné, the unworthy hero of the drama, sat sullenly pulling away at the fragments of an old clay pipe. The others apparently were blaming him for what had happened, for a few injurious epithets were hurled at him between copious draughts of liquor.
Half an hour went by. Péret had been at pains to restrain his impatience; his fingers were drumming a devil's tattoo upon the table and his narrow, hawklike face was working as if a savage oath was forcing its way through his lips.
Then suddenly he jumped to his feet; quick, measured footsteps resounded on the cobblestones of the narrow street. A few seconds later the corporal entered the room. He appeared breathless with excitement.
"We went to the Rue des Pipots," he said, speaking rapidly, "the last house in the street --"
"Yes! Yes!" Péret broke in, in his shrill treble, "and whom did you find there?"
"No one, Citizen."
"What do you mean? No one?"
"No one, Citizen. The house was empty. But I left three of our men on guard, waiting your instructions, because in an outhouse in the waste ground adjoining we found a quantity of smuggled goods: English ale, cloth, steel files. It was quite by chance we lighted on them."
"Smuggled goods, eh?" Péret remarked, obviously disappointed. "We can see about those to-morrow. It was not worth while keeping three men to guard a few yards of cloth."
"It was not the cloth, Citizen, nor the English files that made me and my men anxious. It was this note which we found soiled and crumpled, forgotten amongst the goods."
And the soldier handed a dirty scrap of paper to Péret, who seized on it eagerly and quickly glanced over its contents. Then he turned back abruptly to the group of smugglers.
"This epistle," he said dryly, "is addressed to you, Citizen Dieudonné."
Dieudonné jumped to his feet.
"To me?" he queried with an oath.
"It suggests that you meet the writer at the usual trysting place at ten o'clock this evening. Where is that trysting place, Citizen Dieudonné?"
"I don't know what you mean," the smuggler replied gruffly. "The epistle is not addressed to me."
"Ah, but I think that it is," Péret rejoined blandly. "How can we assume that there is more than one Dieudonné who plies the nefarious trade smuggling in St.-Jean. The epistle is addressed to the Citizen Dieudonné at the sign of the Flying Bull in St.-Jean. Now my police happen to know, Citizen Dieudonné, that you are lodging at the sign of the Flying Bull. Where is the usual trysting place, Citizen Dieudonné?"
"It is all a lie," Dieudonné swore hotly. "Are you all fools or am I mad? I tell you that letter was not written to me. I know nothing of any trysting place."
"H'm," Péret retorted with affected urbanity, "that is a pity for you, Citizen. Because the device at the foot of this epistle --see, it is done in red ink and shaped like a small flower -- suggests to me that it was written by that arch spy the Scarlet Pimpernel, and unless you can tell us what is the trysting place where he suggests that you meet him--"
He paused and looked intently on the smuggler, whose cheeks beneath the tan had taken on a leaden hue.
"It is all a lie," Deiudonné murmured, but those who heard him now could note a tone of hesitancy, aye, and of fear in his gruff voice.
"Unless," Péret reiterated very slowly, "you can tell us the whereabouts of that trysting place, you will be a dead man within the hour."
"Name of a dog!"
"Aye, name of a dog!" Péret retorted at the top of his high-pitched voice, "you dirty, miserable spy, who tried --clumsily enough --to save your pocket by telling us lies and denouncing a man whom this city respects. You hoped, I imagine, to keep me and these citizen soldiers busy whilst you removed your hoard and trafficked with that cursed Englishman. Well! the guillotine is set up in the market place conveniently, just outside this house. If within the next five minutes you do not put me on the track of the Scarlet Pimpernel your head will roll into the basket, my friend. And," he added with a vicious snarl, turning to the rest of the company, "whoever protests or interferes will go the same way too. Citizen Corporal, take this man out into the square. The sight of Madame Guillotine's outstretched arms will, mayhap, loosen his tongue."
The man-- who was huge and powerful-- fought desperately and with amazing vigour; but resistance was, of course, futile, and within half a minute he was over-powered and led out of the room, cursing viciously and shaking a clenched fist in the direction of the little doctor.
"You mealy mouthed reprobate," he shouted, "I'll be even with you yet!"
But after he had been made to cross the narrow hall and, the front door being wide open, he had caught sight of the hideous erection in the market place, dimly illumined by an overhead lanthorn, he gave a dismal howl like a terrified cur and blabbed half-incoherently:
"I'll tell you! I'll tell you where you can find the Englishman."
Péret, who had followed the small posse into the little hall, gave an exclamation of satisfaction; then he made a peremptory gesture in the direction of a door close by which bore the legend "Private" upon it.
"In there!" he said curtly.
He himself pushed the door open and went into what was apparently the landlord's private parlour. A pair of ragged curtains hung in front of the only window. In the centre of the room there was a table; on it a tattered cloth. Around the walls were ranged a sofa and a few chairs of black horsehair, adorned with soiled antimacassars, and upon the chimney shelf an old clock ticked monotonously. A smoky, evil-smelling oil lamp hung from the blackened ceiling and threw a dim circle of light around.
The soldiers pushed Dieudonné into the parlour.
"Two of you remain on guard in this room," Péret commanded, "the others at attention outside the front and back doors of this house, see that no one leaves it. Now then, Citizen Dieudonné," he went on, as soon as his orders had been obeyed, "we wait to hear what you have to tell us."
"It's simple enough," the smuggler murmured, cowed and browbeaten apparently into submission. "The Englishman is rich. He owns a schooner which you must have seen out to sea. When he comes ashore I give him shelter out of sight of the police; in exchange he brings me cargoes of English files, or cloth, what? There's not much harm in that."
"To traffick with an enemy of France," Péret broke in dryly, "to cheat your country of revenue, to harbour an English spy is black treason, punishable by death without trial."
"If I am to die whatever I do," Dieudonné broke out like an infuriated animal at bay, "then I'll not speak. Find the Englishman as best you can."
"Silence!" Péret thundered in response. "You are not here to argue with me, but to speak. But let me tell you this, my friend," he added with sudden urbanity, "as soon as we have captured the Englishman you shall have a full pardon for all your misdeeds and be free to go whithersoever you please."
"Then send your men to the house of Dr. Lescar; the Englishman was to meet me there at ten o'clock to-night."
"I don't believe it," Péret retorted. "It is another trick."
"A trick, is it?" Dieudonné cried hoarsely, "a trick? Let me tell you, Citizen Péret, that you and your committee are being fooled and tricked. Fooled by that sanctimonious doctor who lines his pockets and sells his country to the enemy. A trick? Go, send your soldiers to the doctor's house. You'll soon see if this is a trick."
For a moment after that there was complete silence in the dingy, ill-lit parlour. Péret's deep-set eyes were fixed upon the smuggler's face, as if he would drag the truth out of him by brute force. Then he glanced at the clock. It lacked twenty minutes to ten.
The soldiers at the door were waiting, immobile and mute.
"A full pardon, man, if you have spoken truly," Péret muttered between his teeth. "But if within an hour from now the guard have not returned with the Englishman, or if in some other way you have lied to me --well --it is not too late an hour to set Madame la Guillotine to work."
He went to the window and threw it open. It gave on to the side of the house.
"Citizen Corporal!" he shouted.
"Present, Citizen," came in quick response as the corporal hastened around the corner.
Péret leaned out of the window and, when the soldier was within whispering distance, he gave him rapid instructions:
"The house of Dr. Lescar --you know it?"
"Perfectly, Citizen."
"Go there at once with a dozen of your men. At ten o'clock, or soon after, a man will arrive. He is tall and powerful -- will probably be disguised. Do not allow yourself to be tricked-- seize any man you suspect and remember that your heads are at stake.
"Tell them to bring Dr. Lescar in here to me."
Then he turned back into the room. For the next few moments the silence of the night was broken by quick words of command; the measured tramp of the soldiers as they crossed the market square and the peremptory call for Dr. Lascar. Anon the little doctor was ushered into the parlour. He appeared as serene as before, asked no questions and barely looked at the smuggler, who at sight of him had broken into a jeering laugh and raised a menacing fist.
"Pray to your saints, Citizen Doctor," he said, "that the Englishman keeps the tryst which we made with him, else you and I, it seems, are to lose our heads within the hour."
After that all was still. The doctor sat down quietly beside the table and soon appeared absorbed in calm meditation. Outside, the little city was already asleep, or mayhap its inhabitants were cowering wide-awake in their beds, vaguely conscious of the tragedy that was being enacted in their peace-loving town.
The tavern itself seemed like the abode of wraiths. Inside the public room no one had stirred. No one dared stir. There were still soldiers on guard about the entrances and all those in the public rooms remembered Péret's orders and his threats.
In the private parlour the silence was electric; through it could only be heard the dismal, monotonous ticking of the clock and the gentle grating of metal against metal, as the curtain swayed upon its rod, blown by the breeze which came through the open window. Péret had sunk down on the sofa, with his elbows resting on his knees, his face buried in his hands, striving vainly to keep his excitement in check. The soldiers, alert and keen, kept close watch upon the smuggler and upon the doctor. Dieudonné stood close beside the table, one hand resting on the back of a chair; he was swaying slightly on his legs like a man drunk, and his glance, which had become unsteady, travelled incessantly from the calm face of the doctor to the crouching figure of the Terrorist.
Then it happened all in a moment: the soldiers themselves scarce knew how, so unexpected was it, like a sudden flash of lightening in a serene sky. All that they recollected was that Dieudonné at a stroke lifted the chair nearest to him and, swinging it up, struck the hanging lamp. There was a terrific clatter of broken glass and falling metal; one of the soldiers, on the very point of turning to pull open the door, felt his leg clutched by an unseen hand, and he fell against his comrade, dragging him down with him, even whilst Citizen Péret's calls and curses sounded muffled, almost inaudible.
Less than two seconds later the noise had attracted the attention of the guard outside The door was pulled open; soldiers came rushing in; the lanthorn from the hall threw some measure of light upon the confusion that reigned in the private parlour. There were some among the soldiers who, had they dared, would in truth have laughed aloud, so comical did the situation appear: their comrades struggling to their feet, the broken glass, the oil from the lamp flowing in an evil-smelling stream, and, funniest of all, Citizen Péret, the dreaded Terrorist, vainly striving to disentangle himself from the folds of the tablecloth which completely enveloped him, whilst the draught through the open window, now that the door was open, blew the curtains straight out into the room and somehow helped to make the situation appear more confused and more ludicrous.
Of the smuggler and the little doctor there was not a sign. In vain did Péret, as soon as he had found breath, shout himself hoarse with cries of: "After them! After them! Curse you for a set of fools! After them! They cannot have gone far!"
But, in truth, though mayhap they had not gone far, they had gone far enough to be out of reach. Indeed, such a pursuit was bound to be futile, as there were no indications whatever which ways the fugitive had gone and many seconds were lost by the pursuers in arguments as to which road to take. The darkness of the night favoured them, too, and suddenly even the heavens were on their side, when it began to rain heavily.
The records of St.-Jean in Brittany go to prove that the pursuit was carried on in spite of many drawbacks and endless heart-burnings and disappointments, until a posse of coastguardsmen sighted a rowing boat out to sea which was making for a graceful English schooner whose lights could be seen faintly glimmering through the veil of darkness and of rain. They sent a volley of musket shot after that boat, but whoever it was who wielded the oars easily baffled them.
And a couple of hours later, when from far away inland came the sound of church clocks of St.-Jean booming the midnight hour, Dr. Lescar was pacing up and down the deck of the Day-Dream beside the man to whom he owed his life.
"I wish I understood it all, milord," he said. "Indeed, it seems that my gratitude hath o'erclouded my brains, for it all seems an inextricable puzzle to me."
"Nay! my dear doctor," Sir Percy Blakeney replied, smiling pleasantly on the eager face of the little man. "Your generosity makes far too much of what was just a happy adventure for me, almost entirely due to chance."
"Chance! It could not have been chance, milord, else how came you to be in the public room of the tavern at the very hour when Péret made up his mind to have me arrested?"
"Ah, but that is where you are mistaken, doctor. You think that it was a sudden thought of Péret's tortuous brain that caused him to launch an accusation against you. But I who --alas for me-- know these abominable Terrorists from old and varied experience, I guessed the moment that such an important personage came to St.-Jean that he had been sent in order to track down noble game. And who more important, more noble, more of a thorn in the flesh of all those reprobates, than you, my dear doctor, with your gentle, unselfish ways, your refinement, your learning, and your pity. Nay! do not protests! We all know how the people of St.-Jean love you, and to be loved of the people these days stinks in the nostrils of those arrogant demagogues. I knew that your arrest was a matter of a few hours, that it would need but a chance click of the tongue to send a pack of curs snarling at your heels, so I devised my little comedy. You know my belief, do you not? my belief in my own luck, my belief that that the Goddess of Chance is bald is save for one hair in her head, and that when she flies, unseen, before us, if we can grasp that hair we hold her a slave to our will; well! to-night I grasped that hair. I laid my scene in the outhouse of the Rue des Pipots, with smuggled goods and the epistle making the assignation for ten o'clock. Then, disguised as the smuggler Dieudonné and one or two members of my faithful league as Pierre-Hercule and Jean-Paul, we goaded Péret into accusing you then and there. It took time; but it was a mere juggling with words and phrases till we got him to send his soldiers off to the Rue des Pipots, where they found the epistle which I had prepared for them. From that point until we got him into a state of somewhat fuddled rage we had easy work. I wanted to get him and you into one private room with me; I did not care how many soldiers he had to guard him; the Goddess of Chance was ahead of me and I grasped her by the one hair. After that, to break a lamp, to plunge the room into darkness, to trip up the soldiers, to throw a heavy cloth over the head of Péret was work that any schoolboy would accomplish with zest. The window was already open as you know; I lifted you across my shoulders --you weigh more than a child, my dear doctor --and together we gave Citizen Péret's guard of bloodhounds a magnificent run, until we reached the secret cove, which was the rendezvous for my faithful lieutenants, and where one of them was waiting for us with a boat. Indeed, you and I had not long to wait either. During the wild chase after us, attention at the tavern had relaxed, the two members of my league had no difficulty in getting away. They too made straight for the cove, while our pursuers ran aimlessly about the town. And now," Sir Percy Blakeney concluded with a happy sigh, "please forgive me for this long disquisition. 'Tis you who wanted to know how the adventure was planned. To me and my league it was both simple and pleasant. Ask my friends Lord Anthony Dewhurst and Sir Andrew Ffoulkes if they would not greatly relish another such joyous adventure."
The little doctor was silent for a moment or two; when he spoke again his voice was veiled with tears.
"Ah, milord! you and your friends are English, and you have --I understand--as great a horror of sentiment as you have of cowardice: therefore I will make a great effort and keep back the words of gratitude and admiration which wellnigh choke me. But at evening when, mayhap, for awhile you rest from your labours of self-sacrifice and heroism and in the arms of your dear wife live only for her beauty and her love, then I beg of you to remember that at that hour there will always rise from an old man's lips a hymn of thanksgiving to God, in that He created men like you!"