I tore the cloth from my head and sprang up. I was in pitch-darkness. I
dashed against the door to no avail. Feeling the walls, I discovered
myself to be in a small, empty closet. With all my force I flung myself
once more upon the door. It stood firm.

"Dame! but I have got into a pickle," I thought.

They were no ghosts, at all events. Scared as I was, I rejoiced at that.
I could cope with men, but who can cope with the devil? These might be
villains--doubtless were, skulking in this deserted house,--yet with
readiness and pluck I could escape them.

It was as hot as a furnace in my prison, and as still as the grave. The
men, who seemed by their footsteps to be several, had gone cautiously
down the stairs after caging me. Evidently I had given them a fine
fright, clattering through the house as I had, and even now they were
looking for my accomplices.

It seemed hours before the faintest sound broke the stillness. If ever
you want to squeeze away a man's cheerfulness like water from a rag,
shut him up alone in the dark and silence. He will thank you to take him
out into the daylight and hang him. In token whereof, my heart welcomed
like brothers the men returning.

They came into the room, and I thought they were three in number. I
heard the door shut, and then steps approached my closet.

"Have a care now, monsieur; he may be armed," spoke the rough voice of a
man without breeding.