The next day Roger could settle to nothing. The hours seemed to drag interminably. At last dusk fell. He supped, as usual, in the coffee room. Another two hours crept by, while the other inmates of the place went to bed. The inn fell silent. Having left in an envelope enough money to settle his score, he crept down the back stairs and let himself out into the yard.
After supper he had ordered Mobo to saddle his horse, and another that he had hired from Philippe that afternoon, then take them out and walk them quietly up and down at the far end of the big, barren square. Slaves normally never asked questions, and were used to exercising infinite patience; so he was confident that, even if Mobo were left walking the horses for four or five hours, he would continue to do so until his master appeared. Actually he had been out there for only a little over two hours when Roger joined him, took over the horses and told him to remain near the fountain until he returned.
At an easy pace he rode out to the house. There was a quarter moon, which gave more light than he could have wished for; but it was not yet high in the sky, so the trees threw big patches of shadow, of which he took advantage wherever it was possible. In the outskirts of the city nothing was moving, and the silence was broken only by the croaking of the tree frogs. Without incident, he reached the back of the big bam, tied the reins of his horses to a nearby tree and, going round to the front of the barn, found Baob waiting there for him.
Together, making as little noise as possible, they got out the big ladder, carried it across the yard and set it up under Lisala's window. Roger took from his pocket a small bag containing the guineas he had promised the big Negro as the first instalment of his bribe. Baob murmured his thanks, kissed Roger's hand and took the money.
Roger then mounted the ladder. Lisala's window, like all the others in the house, was in darkness; but it was open. Immediately he tapped on the upper pane, the curtains parted and she threw her arms round his neck. After a prolonged kiss he whispered, 'Give me your valise and I'll take it down; then I'll come back for you.'
As he spoke, he felt the ladder suddenly shift beneath him. Another moment and it was wrenched away to fall sideways with a crash in the yard. Wildly Roger clutched at the window-sill. Dangling there, he heard Baob shout:
'Thieves! Thieves! A man is breaking into the Senhorita's room!'
The Betrayal
At that awful moment, as Roger clung to the sill of Lisala's window, the question that flashed through his mind was: Why should Baob have betrayed him? By doing so, the herculean Negro had nothing to gain. On the contrary, he was throwing away twenty-five pieces of gold—more than he could have earned, had he been a free man, by a year's hard work.
But this was no time for idle speculation. Tensing his muscles, Roger heaved himself up, threw his body across the window-sill, then clambered, breathless, into the room. Baob was still shouting, 'Thieves! Thieves!' and, by now, his shouts had roused the household. From the next room there came the sound of a creaking bed, then the opening and slamming of a door.
Lisala, staring wide-eyed at Roger, gasped, 'Holy Virgin! What are we to do?'
Roger drew his sword. His blue eyes were blazing with anger and his lips were drawn back, showing his teeth in a snarl. 'Fight our way out. 'Tis our only chance. Otherwise this means death for me and a living death in a convent for you. Can I but get at that treacherous slave, I'll cut his testicles off and ram them down his throat.'
He was still speaking when the door was flung open and Dona Christina burst into the room. Her hair was in curlers and her flabby checks unrouged. Without corsets, her breasts sagged beneath her hastily-donned dressing gown, giving her, with her broad bottom, a grotesque pear-shaped appearance. The moonlight was just sufficient for her to recognise Roger. At the sight of him her mouth fell open and her eyes bulged.
Lisala was standing several feet nearer the door than Roger.
With the ferocity of a tigress, she flung herself on the old woman, clawing at her face. Screaming, the duenna backed away, tripped and fell. In one spring, Lisala went down on top of her and pounded at her face, yelling:
‘I hate you! I hate you! You sanctimonious old cow! For spying on me all these years, take that . . . and that. .. and that!*
Stooping, Roger seized Lisala and dragged her off, crying, 'Enough! Enough! Quick. Never mind your valise. We've got to get away. It may already be too late.' Grabbing her wrist, he pulled her after him out into the passage.
The light there was dim, but sufficient for Roger to see the Marquis, sword in hand, hurrying towards him. Halting, he cried, 'My Lord, I beg you to put up your sword and parley with me.'
'So it is you, Mr. Brook!' de Pombal rapped back. 'Nay, I'll not parley with an unscrupulous adventurer.'
At that instant another door further down the passage opened and the Senhora de Arahna appeared. Turning his head for a moment, the Marquis snapped, 'Anna, return to your room and lock the door. You can be of no help to me in dealing with this villain.'
Recognising Roger with Lisala behind him, and realising that this was an attempted elopement, Dona Anna wailed, 'Lisala, what are you about? Dear child, think of your future. To leave your father's roof with a man to whom you are not married would be a terrible thing to do.'
'He wished to marry me,' Lisala retorted angrily. 'But Papa would not have it. 'Tis he who has driven us to this present pass.'
The Senhora turned on her brother. 'Joaquim! Our reputation can yet be saved. Mr. Brook is of good birth and some fortune. Far better let them marry than have the name of de Pombal dragged in the mud by such an appalling scandal.'
'Nay, Anna,' the Marquis cried furiously, 'that I will never do. Have you not realised that this Mr. Brook is no other than Colonel de Breuc, whom we met in Isfahan? For years, on his own admission, he has played a double game, either as a spy for Bonaparte or the English. I know not which, but it is unthinkable that I should give my daughter to such an unprincipled rogue.'
It was Lisala who caused the already boiling pot to run over. With equal fury she shouted back, 'The choice is not yours. He has long been my lover, and I am now carrying his child.'
The Senhora gave a gasp, 'Dear God! What have we done to deserve this tribulation!' Putting her hand to her head, she slid to the floor in a dead faint.
De Pombal gave a sudden hiss. Seething with rage, he raised his sword and came at Roger, rasping, 'I'll kill you for this I I'll kill you!'
Roger threw himself on guard, parried the Marquis' first thrust and cried, 'My Lord, I implore you to desist. I am accounted one of the finest swordsmen in the Emperor's army; and I am twenty years your junior. To have to wound you would distress me greatly, but if you continue to lunge at me, I'll have no alternative.'
Ignoring Roger's warning, de Pombal continued like a maniac to thrust and cut at him. Such wild strokes could be dangerous; but from years of sword-play, Roger found no great difficulty in warding off the attack. For a good minute their blades clashed, slithered and threw out sparks. Suddenly, Roger felt his right ankle grasped, there came a sharp pull upon it which sent him off balance. He lurched, made a wild effort to recover his stance, failed and crashed to the floor face down.
It was Dona Christina. Bleeding and bartered she had crawled out from Lisala's room unnoticed, while the terrific altercation was taking place. Thrusting an arm past Lisala's feet, she had grabbed Roger's ankle and jerked it towards her with all the strength of which she was capable.
Catching sight of her duenna's outstretched arm, Lisala stooped, seized the old woman by the hair and banged her head viciously against the wall, until she became unconscious.