Their attention was chained by what now happened before their eyes.

The group of servants parted and a woman staggered on to the bridge.

Antoinette de Mauban was in a loose white robe, her dark hair streamed over her shoulders, her face was ghastly pale, and her eyes gleamed wildly in the light of the torches.

In her shaking hand she held a revolver, and, as she tottered forward, she fired it at Rupert Hentzau.

The ball missed him, and struck the woodwork over my head.
"Faith, madame," laughed Rupert, "had your eyes been no more deadly than your shooting, I had not been in this scrape--nor Black Michael in hell--tonight!" She took no notice of his words.