All at once, a discharge of musketry, growling like thunder, exploded in the entrails of the vault.

Two or three balls were flattened against the rock on which Biscarrat was leaning.

At the same instant, cries, shrieks, imprecations burst forth, and the little troop of gentlemen reappeared--some pale, some bleeding--all enveloped in a cloud of smoke, which the outer air seemed to suck from the depths of the cavern.
"Biscarrat! Biscarrat!" cried the fugitives, "you knew there was an ambuscade in that cavern, and you did not warn us! Biscarrat, you are the cause that four of us are murdered men! Woe be to you, Biscarrat!" "You are the cause of my being wounded unto death," said one of the young men, letting a gush of scarlet life-blood vomit in his palm, and spattering it into Biscarrat's livid face.

"My blood be on your head!" And he rolled in agony at the feet of the young man.
"But, at least, tell us who is there ?" cried several furious voices.
Biscarrat remained silent.

"Tell us, or die!" cried the wounded man, raising himself upon one knee, and lifting towards his companion an arm bearing a useless sword.