"We won't kill him
outright, eh, friend Desgas? The Pere Blanchard's hut is--an I
mistake not--a lonely spot upon the beach, and our men will enjoy a
bit of rough sport there with the wounded fox. Choose your men well,
friend Desgas. . .of the sort who would enjoy that type of sport--eh?
We must see that Scarlet Pimpernel wither a bit--what?--shrink and
tremble, eh?. . .before we finally. . ." He made an expressive
gesture, whilst he laughed a low, evil laugh, which filled
Marguerite's soul with sickening horror.
"Choose your men well, Citoyen Desgas," he said once more, as
he led his secretary finally out of the room.
CHAPTER XXVII ON THE TRACK
Never for a moment did Marguerite Blakeney hesitate. The last
sounds outside the "Chat Gris" had died away in the night. She had
heard Desgas giving orders to his men, and then starting off towards
the fort, to get a reinforcement of a dozen more men: six were not
thought sufficient to capture the cunning Englishman, whose
resourceful brain was even more dangerous than his valour and his
strength.
Then a few minutes later, she heard the Jew's husky voice
again, evidently shouting to his nag, then the rumble of wheels, and
noise of a rickety cart bumping over the rough road.
Pages:
319
320
321
322
323
324
325
326
327
328
329
330
331
332
333
334
335
336
337
338
339
340
341
342
343