He filled the rôle of comrade which Spurlock dared not enact, at least not utterly as he would have liked. He had deliberately saved it for last. Conceiving the opportunity too favourable to be lost, Jack sprang suddenly over the hedge, and before the man, who was floundering on the ground with one foot in the stirrup, could extricate himself from his embarrassing position, secured his pistols, which he drew from the holsters, and held them to his head. There were neither texts nor rubbish on the walls, but only a stirring version of Belshazzar’s feast, a steel engraving in the early Victorian manner that had some satisfactory blacks. “And now let us leave the men alone and talk about ourselves. . ’ ‘Dieu du ciel,’ burst from mademoiselle as she jumped up.
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