He walked a little stiffly because his shoulder had begun to hurt again, keeping his eyes fixed on the gate ahead, which was the first objective. He kept the revolver leveled at Dunbar's ribs—that was the form. He tried to keep himself from thinking about Margaretha. At sixty feet he was able to make out the first guards: two wavering figures against the tower. Still closer, a third and a fourth appeared by the gatehouse. Although suspicious, they could hardly have a clue to what this was was all about . . . All lovers are at war with the world, she had once smilingly said to him, but of course never realized the truth of it until now—clinging to the bars of her cell, tapping a finger in time with his footsteps. Yes, he thought, she definitely senses that I'm close . . .

The last fifty feet were particularly dark, with meshed shadows from the walls to the towers and only a hint of light from the streets. Still, it seemed that he could hear her now, actually whispering his name. Nic-ky. And again, like the sound of a shutting door or even a cocking rifle . . . Nic-ky, Nic-ky . . .

He turned, glancing back at tributary streets, then to the walls above. Although there was nothing apparently wrong, she was obviously trying to tell him something . . . Nic-ky. Even Dunbar must have heard it now, also hesitating as she continued . . . Nic-ky— exactly like the gentle click of a cartridge slipping into a chamber.

A rush of impressions came to mind before he actually saw the soldiers: the rifles were French judging from the sound of the sliding bolts, the officers were only waiting for Dunbar to stand clear before giving the order to fire, de Massloff would have never betrayed him if only he'd taken the time to get to know her . . .

He became aware of the voices, English and French, Vadime shouting from close by: "Don't shoot. For Godsakes don't shoot him."

And then came the lights, long arc-lights converging on him from the towers, defining every cobblestone.

He heard Dunbar shouting something in his ear and tried to club him across the mouth, but the man had already dropped to the cobbles.

Shots—two, maybe three rounds at his feet, and a fourth to his left thigh. But he didn't go down, not with Zelle so close. He simply stumbled, glaring around him like a wounded bull, then slowly continued walking.

They seemed to hesitate before firing again. Someone had even shouted an order, but still nothing . . . then another weak step forward, and then a last shot to stop him.