"Yes," I said; "I've got a revolver, and a little dagger."
"Who knows what may happen? Give me one of them--give me the dagger,
if you like."
I passed it to him in the darkness. Astounding as it may seem, I am
prepared solemnly to assert that at that moment I had forgotten the
history of the dagger, and Sir Cyril's connection with it.
I was just going to ask of what use weapons could be, situated as we
were, when I saw Deschamps with a sudden movement jump up from her
bed, her eyes blazing. With an involuntary cry in my throat I hammered
the glass in front of us with the butt of my revolver, but it was at
least an inch thick, and did not even splinter. Sir Cyril sprang from
the ledge instantly. Meanwhile Rosa, the change of whose features
showed that she divined the shameful trick played upon her, stood up,
half-indignant, half-terrified. Deschamps was no more dying than I
was; her eyes burned with the lust of homicide, and with uplifted
twitching hands she advanced like a tiger, and Rosa retreated before
her to the middle of the room.
Then there was the click of a spring, and a square of the centre of
the floor, with Rosa standing upon it, swiftly descended into the room
where we were. The thing was as startling as a stage illusion; yes, a
thousand-fold more startling than any trick I ever saw. I may state
here, what I learnt afterwards, that the room above was originally a
dining-room, and the arrangement of the trap had been designed to
cause a table to disappear and reappear as tables were wont to do at
the notorious banquets of King Louis in the Petit Trianon. The glass
observatory enabled the kitchen attendants to watch the progress of
the meals. Sir Cyril knew of the contrivance, and, rushing to the
upright pillar, had worked it most opportunely.
The kitchen, as I may now call it, was illuminated with light from the
room above. I hastened to Rosa, who on seeing Sir Cyril and myself
gave a little cry, and fell forward fainting. She was a brave girl,
but one may have too many astonishments. I caught her, and laid her
gently on the floor. Meanwhile Deschamps (the dying Deschamps!) stood
on the edge of the upper floor, stamping and shouting in a high fever
of foiled revenge. She was mad. When I say that she was mad, I mean
that she was merely and simply insane. I could perceive it instantly,
and I foresaw that we should have trouble with her.
Without the slightest warning, she jumped down into the midst of us.
The distance was a good ten feet, but with a lunatic's luck she did
not hurt herself. She faced Sir Cyril, shaking in every limb with
passion, and he, calm, determined, unhurried, raised his dagger to
defend himself against this terrible lioness should the need arise.