ing that the captive's eyes sought the window, the lieutenant
laughed.

"No bars?" he said. "No, Monsieur, and no need of them. You will not go
by that road, bars or no bars."

"What is below?" Count Hannibal asked carelessly. "The river?"

"Yes, Monsieur," with a grin; "but not water. Mud, and six feet of it,
soft as Christmas porridge, but not so sweet. I've known two puppies
thrown in under this window that did not weigh more than a fat pullet
apiece. One was gone before you could count fifty, and the other did not
live thrice as long--nor would have lasted that time, but that it fell on
the first and clung to it."

Tavannes dismissed the matter with a shrug, and, drawing his cloak about
him, set a stool against the wall and sat down. The men who brought in
the wine and the bundle of straw were inquisitive, and would have
loitered, scanning him stealthily; but Peridol hurried them away. The
lieutenant himself stayed only to cast a glance round the room, and to
mutter that he would return when his lord returned; then, with a "Good
night" which said more for his manners than his good will, he followed
them out. A moment later the grating of the key in the lock and the
sound of the bolts as they sped home told Tavannes that he was a
prisoner.

CHAPTER XIV. TOO SHORT A SPOON.

Count Hannibal remained seated, his chin sunk on his breast, until his
ear assured him that the three men had descended the stairs to the floor
below. Then he rose, and, taking the lanthorn from the table, on which
Peridol had placed it, he went softly to the door, which, like the
window, stood in a recess--in this case the prolongation of the passage.
A brief scrutiny satisfied him that escape that way was impossible, and
he turned, after a cursory glance at the floor and ceiling, to the dark,
windy aperture which yawned at the end of the apartment. Placing the
lanthorn on the table, and covering it with his cloak, he mounted the
window recess, and, stepping to the unguarded edge, looked out.

He knew, rather than saw, that Peridol had told the truth. The smell of
the aguish flats which fringed that part of Paris rose strong in his
nostrils. He guessed that the sluggish arm of the Seine which divided
the Arsenal from the Ile des Louviers crawled below; but the night was
dark, and it was impossible to discern land from water. He fancied that
he could trace the outline of the island--an uninhabited place, given up
to w