The Grey Cloak - Page 6/256

Twice, three times, and yet again he drank of the secret. That he of

all men should make this discovery! His danger became as nothing; he

forgot even the object of his thieving visit.

"Well, Monsieur?" said a cold, dry voice from the threshold.

The man in the grey cloak leaped to his feet, thrusting the letter into

the pocket along with the cabal. His long rapier snarled from its

scabbard, just in time. The two blades hung in mid air.

"Nicely caught," said the cold, dry voice again. "What have you to

say? It is hanging, Monsieur, hanging by the neck." The speaker was a

man of sixty, white of hair, but wiry and active. "Ha! in a mask, eh?

That looks bad for you. You are not a common thief, then? . . . That

was a good stroke, but not quite high enough. Well?"

"Stand aside, Monsieur le Comte," said the man in the cloak. His tones

were steady; all his fright was gone.

The steel slithered and ground.

"You know me, eh?" said the old man, banteringly. His blade ripped a

hole in the cloak. "You have a voice that sounds strangely familiar to

my ears."

"Your ears will soon be dull and cold, if you do not let me pass."

"Was it gold, or jewels? . . . Jesus!" The old man's gaze, roving a

hair's breadth, saw the yawning drawers. "That paper, Monsieur, or you

shall never leave this place alive! Hallo! Help, men! To me,

Grégoire! Help, Captain!"

"Madame shall become a widow," said the man in the mask.

Back he pressed the old man, back, back, into the corridor, toward the

stairs. They could scarce see each other, and it was by instinct alone

that thrust was met by parry. Up the rear staircase came a dozen

mercenaries, bearing torches. The glare smote the master in the eyes,

and partly dazzled him. He fought valiantly, but he was forced to give

way. A chance thrust, however, severed the cords of his opponent's

mask.

"You?"

There was a gurgling sound, a coughing, and the elder sank to his

knees, rolled upon his side, and became still. The man in the grey

cloak, holding the mask to his face, rushed down the grand staircase,

sweeping aside all those who barred his path. He seemed possessed with

strength and courage Homeric; odds were nothing. With a back

hand-swing of his arm he broke one head; he smashed a face with the

pommel; caught another by the throat and flung him headlong. In a

moment he was out of the door. Down the steps he dashed, through the

gate, thence into the street, a mob yelling at his heels. The light

from the torches splashed him. A sharp gust of wind nearly tore the

mask from his fingers. As he caught it, he ran full into a priest.