a league nearer to Paris.
So what mattered the humbled wayside English flower ?--the damaged and withered Scarlet Pimpernel ?...
A slight noise suddenly caused him to start.

He had been dreaming, no doubt, having fallen into some kind of torpor, akin to sleep, after the deadly and restless fatigue of the past four days.

He certainly had been unconscious of everything around him, of time and of place.

But now he felt fully awake.
And again he heard that slight noise, as if something or someone was moving in the room.
He tried to peer into the darkness, but could distinguish nothing.
He rose and went to the door.

It was still open, and close behind it against the wall a small oil lamp was fixed which lit up the corridor.
Chauvelin detached the lamp and came back with it into the room.