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 humour 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 moulding, 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. The darkness
began to weigh upon him. He gave ear; all was silent without, but
within and close by he seemed to catch a faint sighing, a faint
sobbing rustle, a little stealthy creak - as though many persons
were at his side, holding themselves quite still, and governing
even their respiration with the extreme of slyness.
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