Page:Vance--Terence O'Rourke.djvu/178

 chon digging a narrow trench beside it, with Chambret and O'Rourke conversing amiably aside—for it was as hardened murderers that Mouchon had imaged them in his narrative.

"The assassins!" cried Lemercier, first to find his tongue.

But madame had slipped to the floor; again she was sobbing, her face covered with her hands—weeping such tears as the condemned criminal weeps when unexpectedly pardoned.

Mouchon did not comprehend. He looked from madame, the reality of whose emotion he might not question, to Lemercier. Mouchon knew that there had been little affection between madame and Prince Felix; and he fancied that the time was ripe for a move to ingratiate himself into the place the dead blackguard had left vacant in the graces of Leopold. He raised his eyebrows and shrugged his shoulders, in humorous deprecation of madame's attitude.

"This is truly touching—" he began.

Then le petit Lemercier was guilty of the manliest act of his life. His hand fell smartly across Mouchon's mouth.

"You puppy!" he cried. "Get out!"

Mouchon, his face flaming with resentment, hastily left the marquee. Lemercier sank into a chair, gazing at nothing, strangely conscious of a sensation as of relief—as though shackles had been struck from his wrists.

There followed a long silence, broken only at first by madame's subdued sigh—then suddenly shattered by the report of a rifle.

Another followed—and another—barking Mausers all; but in between the shots there rang faint echoes from afar.

"The Tawareks—attacking!" cried Lemercier, his face the hue of ashes.