Within a few minutes their running footsteps had died away in the distance.
Chauvelin listened to them for a moment; the promise of the reward was
lending spurs to the soldiers of the Republic. The gleam of hate and
anticipated triumph was once more apparent on his face.
Close to him Desgas still stood mute and impassive, waiting
for further orders, whilst two soldiers were kneeling beside the
prostrate form of Marguerite. Chauvelin gave his secretary a vicious
look. His well-laid plan had failed, its sequel was problematical;
there was still a great chance now that the Scarlet Pimpernel might
yet escape, and Chauvelin, with that unreasoning fury, which sometimes
assails a strong nature, was longing to vent his rage on somebody.
The soldiers were holding Marguerite pinioned to the ground,
though, she, poor soul, was not making the faintest struggle.
Overwrought nature had at last peremptorily asserted herself, and she
lay there in a dead swoon: her eyes circled by deep purple lines, that
told of long, sleepless nights, her hair matted and damp round her forehead,
her lips parted in a sharp curve that spoke of physical pain.
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