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|Part III||Baroness Emmuska Orczy|
XLVII The Chapel Of The Holy Sepulchre
|Page 3 of 5||
When the grey dawn would first begin to peep through the branches of the pines Percy would be led back to Paris and the guillotine, and she and Armand will have been sacrificed to the hatred and revenge of brutes.
The end had come, and there was nothing more to be done. Struggling, fighting, scheming, could be of no avail now; but she wanted to get to her husband; she wanted to be near him now that death was so imminent both for him and for her.
She tried to envisage it all, quite calmly, just as she knew that Percy would wish her to do. The inevitable end was there, and she would not give to these callous wretches here the gratuitous spectacle of a despairing woman fighting blindly against adverse Fate.
But she wanted to go to her husband. She felt that she could face death more easily on the morrow if she could but see him once, if she could but look once more into the eyes that had mirrored so much enthusiasm, such absolute vitality and whole-hearted self-sacrifice, and such an intensity of love and passion; if she Could but kiss once more those lips that had smiled through life, and would smile, she knew, even in the face of death.
She tried to open the carriage door, but it was held from without, and a harsh voice cursed her, ordering her to sit still.
But she could lean out of the window and strain her eyes to see. They were by now accustomed to the gloom, the dilated pupils taking in pictures of vague forms moving like ghouls in the shadows. The other coach was not far, and she could hear Heron's voice, still subdued and calm, and the curses of the men. But not a sound from Percy.
"I think the prisoner is unconscious," she heard one of the men say.
"Lift him out of the carriage, then," was Heron's curt command; "and you go and throw open the chapel gates."
Marguerite saw it all. The movement, the crowd of men, two vague, black forms lifting another one, which appeared heavy and inert, out of the coach, and carrying it staggering up towards the chapel.
Then the forms disappeared, swallowed up by the more dense mass of the little building, merged in with it, immovable as the stone itself.
Only a few words reached her now.
"He is unconscious."
"Leave him there, then; he'll not move!"
"Now close the gates!"
There was a loud clang, and Marguerite gave a piercing scream. She tore at the handle of the carriage door.
"Armand, Armand, go to him!" she cried; and all her self-control, all her enforced calm, vanished in an outburst of wild, agonising passion. "Let me get to him, Armand! This is the end; get me to him, in the name of God!"
"Stop that woman screaming," came Heron's voice clearly through the night. "Put her and the other prisoner in irons--quick!"
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Baroness Emmuska Orczy
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