She feared to lose her way, or she would have rushed
forward and found that wooden hut, and perhaps been in time to warn
the fugitives and their brave deliverer yet.
For a second, the thought flashed through her mind of uttering
the piercing shrieks, which Chauvelin seemed to dread, as a possible
warning to the Scarlet Pimpernel and his friends--in the wild hope
that they would hear, and have yet time to escape before it was too
late. But she did not know if her shrieks would reach the ears of the
doomed men. Her effort might be premature, and she would never be
allowed to make another. Her mouth would be securely gagged, like
that of the Jew, and she, a helpless prisoner in the hands of
Chauvelin's men.
Like a ghost she flitted noiselessly behind that hedge: she
had taken her shoes off, and her stockings were by now torn off her
feet. She felt neither soreness nor weariness; indomitable will to
reach her husband in spite of adverse Fate, and of a cunning enemy,
killed all sense of bodily pain within her, and rendered her instincts
doubly acute.
She heard nothing save the soft and measured footsteps of Percy's
enemies on in front; she saw nothing but--in her mind's eye--that
wooden hut, and he, her husband, walking blindly to his doom.
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