Just for a moment he wondered if, while he was in that state of somnolence, other bandits had come to take the place of those that were going.  But this thought he quickly dismissed.  In any case, he felt a giant’s strength in himself, and could not rest now till he had tried once more to see her.  He crept very cautiously along; was satisfied that the street was deserted.

Already he had reached the house opposite, had pushed open the porte cochere, which was on the latch—­when, without the slightest warning, he was suddenly attacked from behind, his arms seized and held behind his back with a vice-like grip, whilst a vigorous kick against the calves of his legs caused him to lose his footing and suddenly brought him down, sprawling and helpless, in the gutter, while in his ear there rang the hideous sound of the consumptive ruffian’s racking cough.

“What shall we do with the cub now?” a raucous voice came out of the darkness.

“Let him lie there,” was the quick response.  “It’ll teach him to interfere with the work of honest patriots.”

Kennard, lying somewhat bruised and stunned, heard this decree with thankfulness.  The bandits obviously thought him more hurt than he was, and if only they would leave him lying here, he would soon pick himself up and renew his attempt to go to Esther.  He did not move, feigning unconsciousness, even though he felt rather than saw that hideous Rateau stooping over him, heard his stertorous breathing, the wheezing in his throat.

“Run and fetch a bit of cord, citizen Desmonts,” the wretch said presently.  “A trussed cub is safer than a loose one.”

This dashed Kennard’s hopes to a great extent.  He felt that he must act quickly, before those brigands returned and rendered him completely helpless.  He made a movement to rise—­a movement so swift and sudden as only a trained athlete can make.  But, quick as he was, that odious, wheezing creature was quicker still, and now, when Kennard had turned on his back, Rateau promptly sat on his chest, a dead weight, with long legs stretched out before him, coughing and spluttering, yet wholly at his ease.

Oh! the humiliating position for an amateur middle-weight champion to find himself in, with that drink-sodden—­Kennard was sure that he was drink-sodden—­consumptive sprawling on the top of him!

“Don’t trouble, citizen Desmonts,” the wretch cried out after his retreating companions.  “I have what I want by me.”

Very leisurely he pulled a coil of rope out of the capacious pocket of his tattered coat.  Kennard could not see what he was doing, but felt it with supersensitive instinct all the time.  He lay quite still beneath the weight of that miscreant, feigning unconsciousness, yet hardly able to breathe.  That tuberculous caitiff was such a towering weight.  But he tried to keep his faculties on the alert, ready for that surprise spring which would turn the tables, at the slightest false move on the part of Rateau.