Count Hannibal made no attempt to interrupt him, nor did he betray the discomfiture which he undoubtedly felt.  But as the Grand Master paused—­

“M. de Biron,” he said, in a voice harsh and low, “you will answer to me for this!” And his eyes glittered through the slits in the mask.

“Possibly, but not to-day or to-morrow!” Biron replied, shrugging his shoulders contemptuously.  “Peridol! see the gentleman bestowed as I have ordered, and then return to me.  Monsieur,” with a bow, half courteous, half ironical, “let me commend to you the advantages of silence and your mask.”  And he waved his hand in the direction of the door.

A moment Count Hannibal hesitated.  He was in the heart of a hostile fortress where the resistance of a single man armed to the teeth must have been futile; and he was unarmed, save for a poniard.  Nevertheless, for a moment the impulse to spring on Biron, and with the dagger at his throat to make his life the price of a safe passage, was strong.  Then—­for with the warp of a harsh and passionate character were interwrought an odd shrewdness and some things little suspected—­he resigned himself.  Bowing gravely, he turned with dignity, and in silence followed the officer from the room.

Peridol had two men in waiting at the door.  From one of these the lieutenant took a lanthorn, and, with an air at once sullen and deferential, led the way up the stone staircase to the floor over that in which M. de Biron had his lodging.  Tavannes followed; the two guards came last, carrying a second lanthorn.  At the head of the staircase, whence a bare passage ran, north and south, the procession turned right-handed, and, passing two doors, halted before the third and last, which faced them at the end of the passage.  The lieutenant unlocked it with a key which he took from a hook beside the doorpost.  Then, holding up his light, he invited his charge to enter.

The room was not small, but it was low in the roof, and prison-like, it had bare walls and smoke-marks on the ceiling.  The window, set in a deep recess, the floor of which rose a foot above that of the room, was unglazed; and through the gloomy orifice the night wind blew in, laden even on that August evening with the dank mist of the river flats.  A table, two stools, and a truckle bed without straw or covering made up the furniture; but Peridol, after glancing round, ordered one of the men to fetch a truss of straw and the other to bring up a pitcher of wine.  While they were gone Tavannes and he stood silently waiting, until, observing 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.”