prostrate form of Marguerite. Chauvelin gave his secretary a vicious

look. His well-laid plan had failed, its sequel was problematical;
there was still a great chance now that the Scarlet Pimpernel might

yet escape, and Chauvelin, with that unreasoning fury, which sometimes
assails a strong nature, was longing to vent his rage on somebody.

The soldiers were holding Marguerite pinioned to the ground,
though, she, poor soul, was not making the faintest struggle.

Overwrought nature had at last peremptorily asserted herself, and she
lay there in a dead swoon: her eyes circled by deep purple lines, that

told of long, sleepless nights, her hair matted and damp round her forehead,
her lips parted in a sharp curve that spoke of physical pain.

The cleverest woman in Europe, the elegant and fashionable
Lady Blakeney, who had dazzled London society with her beauty, her wit

and her extravagances, presented a very pathetic picture of tired-out,
suffering womanhood, which would have appealed to any, but the hard,

vengeful heart of her baffled enemy.
"It is no use mounting guard over a woman who is half dead,"

he said spitefully to the soldiers, "when you have allowed five men
who were very much alive to escape."

Obediently the soldiers rose to their feet.
"You'd better try and find that footpath again for me, and

that broken-down cart we left on the road."
Then suddenly a bright idea seemed to strike him.

"Ah! by-the-bye! where is the Jew?"
"Close by here, citoyen," said Desgas; "I gagged him and tied

his legs together as you commanded."
From the immediate vicinity, a plaintive moan reached

Chauvelin's ears. He followed his secretary, who led the way to the
other side of the hut, where, fallen into an absolute heap of

dejection, with his legs tightly pinioned together and his mouth
gagged, lay the unfortunatedescendant of Israel.

His face in the silvery light of the moon looked positively
ghastly with terror: his eyes were wide open and almost glassy, and

his whole body was trembling, as if with ague, while a piteous wail
escaped his bloodless lips. The rope which had originally been wound

round his shoulders and arms had evidently given way, for it lay in a
tangle about his body, but he seemed quite conscious" target="_blank" title="a.无意识的；不觉察的">unconscious of this, for he

had not made the slightest attempt to move from the place where Desgas
had originally put him: like a terrified chicken which looks upon a

line of white chalk, drawn on a table, as on a string which paralyzes
its movements.

"Bring the cowardly" target="_blank" title="a.&ad.胆小的(地)">cowardly brute here," commanded Chauvelin.
He certainly felt exceedinglyvicious, and since he had no

reasonable grounds for venting his ill-humour on the soldiers who had
but too punctually obeyed his orders, he felt that the son of the

despised race would prove an excellent butt. With true French
contempt of the Jew, which has survived the lapse of centuries even to

this day, he would not go too near him, but said with biting sarcasm,
as the wretched" target="_blank" title="a.可怜的；倒霉的">wretched old man was brought in full light of the moon by the

two soldiers,--
"I suppose now, that being a Jew, you have a good memory for

bargains?"
"Answer!" he again commanded, as the Jew with trembling lips

seemed too frightened to speak.
"Yes, your Honour," stammered the poor wretch.

"You remember, then, the one you and I made together in Calais,
when you undertook to overtake Reuben Goldstein, his nag and

my friend the tall stranger? Eh?"
"B. . .b. . .but. . .your Honour. . ."

"There is no `but.' I said, do you remember?"
"Y. . .y. . .y. . .yes. . .your Honour!"

"What was the bargain?"
There was dead silence. The unfortunate man looked round at

the great cliffs, the moon above, the stolid faces of the soldiers,
and even at the poor, prostate, inanimate woman close by, but said nothing.

"Will you speak?" thundered Chauvelin, menacingly.
He did try, poor wretch, but, obviously, he could not. There was no doubt,

however, that he knew what to expect from the stern man before him.
"Your Honour. . ." he ventured imploringly.

"Since your terror seems to have paralyzed your tongue," said
Chauvelin sarcastically, "I must needs refresh your memory. It was

agreed between us, that if we overtook my friend the tall stranger,
before he reached this place, you were to have ten pieces of gold."

A low moan escaped from the Jew's trembling lips.
"But," added Chauvelin, with slow emphasis, "if you deceived

me in your promise, you were to have a sound beating, one that would
teach you not to tell lies."

"I did not, your Honour; I swear it by Abraham. . ."
"And by all the other patriarchs, I know. Unfortunately, they

are still in Hades, I believe, according to your creed, and cannot
help you much in your present trouble. Now, you did not fulful your

share of the bargain, but I am ready to fulfil mine. Here," he added,
turning to the soldiers, "the buckle-end of your two belts to this

confounded Jew."
As the soldiers obediently unbuckled their heavy leather

belts, the Jew set up a howl that surely would have been enough to
bring all the patriarchs out of Hades and elsewhere, to defend their

descendant from the brutality of this French official.
"I think I can rely on you, citoyen soldiers," laughed

Chauvelin, maliciously, "to give this old liar the best and soundest
beating he has ever experienced. But don't kill him," he added drily.

"We will obey, citoyen," replied the soldiers as imperturbably
as ever.

He did not wait to see his orders carried out: he knew that he
could trust these soldiers--who were still smarting under his

rebuke--not to mince matters, when given a free hand to belabour a
third party.

"When that lumberingcoward has had his punishment," he said
to Desgas, "the men can guide us as far as the cart, and one of them

can drive us in it back to Calais. The Jew and the woman can look
after each other," he added roughly, "until we can send somebody for

them in the morning. They can't run away very far, in their present
condition, and we cannot be troubled with them just now."

Chauvelin had not given up all hope. His men, he knew, were
spurred on by the hope of the reward. That enigmatic and audacious

Scarlet Pimpernel, alone and with thirty men at his heels, could not
reasonably be expected to escape a second time.

But he felt less sure now: the Englishman's audacity had
baffled him once, whilst the wooden-headed stupidity of the soldiers,

and the interference of a woman had turned his hand, which held all
the trumps, into a losing one. If Marguerite had not taken up his

time, if the soldiers had had a grain of intelligence, if. . .it was a
long "if," and Chauvelin stood for a moment quite still, and enrolled

thirty odd people in one long, overwhelming anathema. Nature, poetic,
silent, balmy, the bright moon, the calm, silvery sea spoke of beauty

and of rest, and Chauvelin cursed nature, cursed man and woman, and
above all, he cursed all long-legged, meddlesome British enigmas with

one gigantic curse.
The howls of the Jew behind him, undergoing his punishment

sent a balm through his heart, overburdened as it was with revengeful
malice. He smiled. It eased his mind to think that some human being

at least was, like himself, not altogether at peace with mankind.
He turned and took a last look at the lonely bit of coast,

where stood the wooden hut, now bathed in moonlight, the scene of the
greatest discomfiture ever experienced by a leading member of the

Committee of Public Safety.
Against a rock, on a hard bed of stone, lay the conscious" target="_blank" title="a.无意识的；不觉察的">unconscious

figure of Marguerite Blakeney, while some few paces further on, the
unfortunate Jew was receiving on his broad back the blows of two stout