that was settled. I had already explained our plan to Croisette:
and now as we waited he began to tell me a story, a long, confused
story about Madame d'O. I thought he was talking for the sake of
talking--to keep up our spirits--and I did not attend much to him; so
that he had not reached the gist of it, or at least I had not grasped
it, when a noise without stayed his tongue. It was the tramp of
footsteps, apparently of a large party in the street. It forced him to
break off, and promptly drove us all to our posts.

But before we separated a slight figure, hardly noticeable in that dim,
uncertain light, passed me quickly, laying for an instant a soft hand
in mine as I stood waiting by the gates. I have said I scarcely saw
the figure, though I did see the kind timid eyes, and the pale cheeks
under the hood; but I bent over the hand and kissed it, and felt, truth
to tell, no more regret nor doubt where our duty lay. But stood,
waiting patiently.

CHAPTER IX.

THE HEAD OF ERASMUS.

Waiting, and waiting alone! The gates were almost down now. The gang
of ruffians without, reinforced each moment by volunteers eager for
plunder, rained blows unceasingly on hinge and socket; and still hotter
and faster through a dozen rifts in the timbers came the fire of their
threats and curses. Many grew tired, but others replaced them. Tools
broke, but they brought more and worked with savage energy. They had
shown at first a measure of prudence; looking to be fired on, and to be
resisted by men, surprised, indeed, but desperate; and the bolder of
them only had advanced. But now they pressed round unchecked, meeting
no resistance. They would scarcely stand back to let the sledges have
swing; but hallooed and ran in on the creaking beams and beat them with
their fists, whenever the gates swayed under a blow.

One stout iron bar still held its place. And this I watched as if
fascinated. I was alone in the empty courtyard, standing a little
aside, sheltered by one of the stone pillars from which the gates hung.
Behind me the door of the house stood ajar. Candles, which the daylight
rendered garish, still burned in the rooms on the first floor, of which
the tall narrow windows were open. On the wide stone sill of one of
these stood Croisette, a boyish figure, looking silently down at me,
his hand on the latticed shutter. He looked pale, and I nodded and
smiled at him. I felt rather anger than fear myself; rememberin