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<h3>Chapter Twenty One.</h3> <h4>What the Sound was.</h4> A faint rustle was plainly heard, as Capel drew aside the curtain. Then the sound ceased, but he felt that as he had taken a step to the left, Katrine must be exactly opposite to him. In another moment she would come forward and touch him, for he could not move from his position. If he stood aside she would pass him and fasten him in the room. He listened in the intense darkness, and could just detect the short, hurried breathing of one who was excited by dread. But as he listened in the darkness, clear now of the heavy curtain, he heard another sound—a peculiar scraping sound, that seemed to come from outside the window. It was that which had alarmed Katrine, and made her extinguish the light. The noise ceased. Then it was repeated, and directly after, sounding muffled by the heavy curtain, the window rattled a little in its frame, as if shaken or pressed upon by some one outside. The panting grew louder, there was a warm breath upon Capel’s cheek, and the next moment he held Katrine in his arms. She uttered a low cry of fear, and struggled to escape. “Hush!” he whispered. “You have nothing to fear. Are you awake?” There was no answer; only a vigorous thrust from the hands placed upon his chest, and he felt that she was trying to open the door, trembling violently the while. “Katrine,” he whispered, “why do you not trust me? Wake up. There is nothing to fear.” He tried to clasp her in his arms again, but with a quick movement she eluded him, and as he caught at her again, it seemed as if the great curtain had been thrust into his arms, for he grasped that, and as he flung it away, the door struck him in the face, and then closed, he heard it locked, and the key withdrawn. Then he stood listening, for the window rattled again, and he wondered that the noise he had made in his slight struggle with Katrine had not been heard by whoever was on the sill. There was a bell somewhere in the room; but if he rang, and roused up the butler, the man would be horrified at hearing his old master’s bedroom bell ringing in the dead of the night. Even if that had not been the case, what excuse could he make? And could he explain his position to Mr Girtle without making him the confidant of all that had passed? And how could he relate to any one that Katrine had been wandering about the house in the middle of the night? What would Mr Girtle say? Would he think it was somnambulism? No; he could not ring. It was impossible; and all the while there was that strange noise outside, muffled by the curtain. He walked cautiously through the intense darkness towards the window, till he could touch the curtain, and then, passing to the left, he softly drew it a little inward, and looked out. It was almost as dark out there as in; but there was a faint glow from the lamps beyond the tall houses that closed in the back, and against this he could dimly see the figure of a man, standing on the sill, while, more indistinctly and quite low down, there were the heads and shoulders of two more. It seemed to him that the man standing on the sill was trying to pass some instrument through between the two sashes, so as to force back the window-catch. What should he do? Give the alarm down-stairs he could not, without compromising Katrine. Alarm the nocturnal visitors? That would be to give up a chance of getting hold of the clue. What should he do? Be a coward, or, now that the opportunity had come, make a bold effort to capture these intruders? Three to one. Yes; but he was in the fort, and they had to attack, and could he secure one, bribery or punishment would make him tell all. There was the sound going on at the window, which was resisting the efforts, and, with palpitating heart and heavy breathing, Capel asked himself the questions again. Should he be cowardly, or brave, and make a daring effort to gain that which was his, from the information these people could give? There was a grating and clicking still going on as he stepped cautiously across the room, the sound guiding him to the stand where his uncle’s old East India uniform and accoutrements were grouped, and the next minute his hands rested upon a pistol. Useless, for it was old-fashioned and uncharged. That was better! His hand touched the ivory hilt of the curved sabre. For a time the blade refused to leave its sheath; then it gave way a little, and he drew it forth, laid the scabbard on the floor, passed his hand through the wrist-knot, and thought that he would have to strike hard, for a cavalry sabre is generally round-edged and blunt. As he thought of this, he touched the edge of the sword with his thumb, to find that this was no regulation blade, but a keen-edged tulwar, set in an English hilt, and, armed with this, Paul Capel felt himself fully a match for those who were working away at the window, which did not yield. Creak—Crack—Crack! The catch flew back, and there was a pause, during which Capel drew near with the blade thrown over his left shoulder, ready for delivering the first cut at the man who entered. Then the window glided up, the great curtain was drawn by an arm in his direction, partly covering him, and a light flashed across the room. <hr /> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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