The duel on the southern ramparts had of course become a farce, not likely to be enacted now that Marguerite's life was at stake.

The daring adventurer was caught in a network at last, from which all his ingenuity, all his wit, his impudence and his amazing luck could never extricate him.
And in Chauvelin's mind there was still something more.

Revenge was the sweetest emotion his bruised and humbled pride could know: he had not yet tasted its complete intoxicating joy: but every hour now his cup of delight became more and more full: in a few days it would overflow.
In the meanwhile he was content to wait.

The hours sped by and there was no news yet of that elusive Pimpernel.

Of Marguerite he knew nothing save that she was well guarded; the sentry who passed up and down outside room No.