He knew enough.  He rose to his full height, and his eyes seemed a little closer together; an ugly smile curved his lips.  His gaze travelled over the objects in the room, the bare stools and table, the lanthorn, the wine-pitcher; beyond these, in a corner, the cloak and straw on the low bed.  The light, cold and grey, fell cheerlessly on the dull chamber, and showed it in harmony with the ominous whisper which grew in the gallery; with the stern-faced listener who stood, his one hand on the door.  He looked, but he found nothing to his purpose, nothing to serve his end, whatever his end was; and with a quick light step he left the door, mounted the window recess, and, poised on the very edge, looked down.

If he thought to escape that way his hope was desperate.  The depth to the water-level was not, he judged, twelve feet.  But Peridol had told the truth.  Below lay not water, but a smooth surface of viscid slime, here luminous with the florescence of rottenness, there furrowed by a tiny runnel of moisture which sluggishly crept across it to the slow stream beyond.  This quicksand, vile and treacherous, lapped the wall below the window, and more than accounted for the absence of bars or fastenings.  But, leaning far out, he saw that it ended at the angle of the building, at a point twenty feet or so to the right of his position.

He sprang to the floor again, and listened an instant; then, with guarded movements—­for there was fear in the air, fear in the silent room, and at any moment the rush might be made, the door burst in—­he set the lanthorn and wine-pitcher on the floor, and took up the table in his arms.  He began to carry it to the window, but, halfway thither, his eye told him that it would not pass through the opening, and he set it down again and glided to the bed.  Again he was thwarted; the bed was screwed to the floor.  Another might have despaired at that, but he rose with no sign of dismay, and listening, always listening, he spread his cloak on the floor, and deftly, with as little noise and rustling as might be, be piled the straw in it, compressed the bundle, and, cutting the bed-cords with his dagger, bound all together with them.  In three steps he was in the embrasure of the window, and, even as the men in the passage thrust the lieutenant aside and with a sudden uproar came down to the door, he flung the bundle lightly and carefully to the right—­so lightly and carefully, and with so nice and deliberate a calculation, that it seemed odd it fell beyond the reach of an ordinary leap.

An instant and he was on the floor again.  The men had to unlock, to draw back the bolts, to draw back the door which opened outwards; their numbers, as well as their savage haste, impeded them.  When they burst in at last, with a roar of “To the river!  To the river!”—­burst in a rush of struggling shoulders and lowered pikes, they found him standing, a solitary figure, on the further side of the table, his arms folded.  And the sight of the passive figure for a moment stayed them.