CHAPTER XIX.
THE DEPARTURE OF THE RATS.
The wood-ash on the hearth had sunk lower and grown whiter.

The last flame that had licked the black sides of the great pot had died down among the expiring embers.

Only under the largest log glowed a tiny cavern, carbuncle-hued; and still Claude walked restlessly from the window to the door, or listened with a frowning face at the foot of the stairs.

One hour, two hours had passed since the Syndic's departure with Basterga; and still Anne remained with her mother and made no sign.
Once, spurred by anxiety and the thought that he might be of use, Claude had determined to mount and seek her; but half-way up the stairs his courage had failed he had recoiled from a scene so tender, and so sacred.

He had descended and fallen again to moving to and fro, and listening, and staring remorsefully at the weapon--it lay where he had dropped it on the floor--that had failed him in his need.
He had their threats in his ears, and by-and-by the horror of inaction, the horror of sitting still and awaiting the worst with folded hands, overcame him; and in a panic planning flight for them all, flight, however hopeless, however desperate, he hurried into his bed-closet, and began to pack his possessions.