With nervous fingers I put the parchment back again. The one fellow who had faced me first came over and jerked me roughly to my feet. Then, as though I were a log, shoved me back until I fell into the chair.
“Where did you get that dagger?” he demanded. He had picked the weapon from the floor and had thrown it on the table.
“I took it from a man on the road,” said I.
“Was it a short fellow—a churchman—dressed like an Abbot?” he asked further.
I was loath to give these rascals more information than was good for them so my answer was as short as I could make it.
“I don’t know whether he was an Abbot or not,” I said. “I couldn’t tell.”
They looked at each other in alarm.
“If he’s in the neighborhood,” said the first, “we’d better get out.”
The other came forward into the light of the fire. His hand was bandaged with a strip of an old shirt and the blood was caked where it had oozed through and hardened.
“Do you know me?” he asked.
“You tried to kill me in the woods,” I said, without lifting my eyes.
“Do you see this?” he went on.
I looked at his hand.
“It’s cut to the bone,” he said, threateningly. “It’ll take weeks for it to heal.” He narrowed his eyes till they were mere slits and studied me. “You’re going to pay for this, do you hear?”
I said nothing, but looked helplessly around.
The first fellow had his gaze upon the floor. He was worried, that I plainly saw. Then, after a little, he touched this fellow on the shoulder.
“Let’s put him out of the way,” he said, glancing towards me. “If we’re caught here, we’ll be in a trap ourselves.”
They were both willing, but still some doubt held them in leash.
“If we do,” was the answer, “what will De Marsac say? You know he wants him” (meaning me) “for a purpose.”
The word De Marsac struck strangely on my ears.
“Oh!” I exclaimed. “De Marsac had better look out for himself. There is some one on his heels.”
They turned to me together like a flash.
“What!” they exclaimed. “Who?”
“The Black Prince!” I called boldly. “He will——”
They laughed in my face.
“The Black Prince is on his way to the west to join the starving remnants of his army,” I was told. “We thought you meant the Abbot of Chalonnes.”
My mouth fell agape. I searched their faces and they searched mine. The fellow who had grappled with me first made a signal to the other, and turned towards the table to pick up the dagger. The man with the wounded hand slouched over towards me. He had his good fist curled in a knot, no doubt to crash it against my skull.
I felt that it was my end. I took a firm hold on the arms of the chair to dodge or fight them to the last of my strength.
The door suddenly flew back on its hinges and banged against the wall. Both men jumped and in my tenseness I jumped with them. They stood with frightened faces looking towards the entrance.
A form appeared—the form of a little man clad in rags, smeared with ink and dirt so that his face was hardly to be seen. His beard was clotted with mire where he had been sleeping in the open. His quills and ink-horn and roll of parchment were gone but he still wore the same curious grin that I had noticed earlier in the day.
With one skip he was in the middle of the room. He clapped the fellow with the injured hand roundly on the back and cried in a voice of glee.
“Well, I see you have him at last!”
The three of us turned with amazement on our faces. Before a word was spoken the scrivener bounded clear across the room. He came to a stop before the table and took the dagger in his hand. Then he faced us.
“Now,” said he, “I should like to know who gave you permission to befoul my house?”
He spoke in a high, commanding key. One of the fellows shifted slowly to the side of the room. The other looked uneasily about. The scrivener, who held his head, pointed at each of them in turn with the dagger.
“Do you know, my gentles,” he demanded in a terrible voice, “who I am?”
The two men knotted their brows, puzzled. One of them bit his lips and the other growled under his breath and flashed a knowing look at his companion. It was a hint, I knew, that at the first chance they would make the attack together.
The scrivener seemed to consider them as children. He took his soiled cap from his head and flung it on the floor.
“Do you know me now?” he cried. “Have you never heard of ‘Will-o’-the-wisp’?”
As though they had been struck by a club, both men drooped and turned instinctively towards the door. Then they called out loud enough for me to hear, “The highwayman of Tours!”
The scrivener snapped his fingers in the air. Then like a showman he took the dagger by the point. He gave it a twist and sent it spinning towards the floor. It struck and buried itself in the wood, where it stood quivering like a living thing.
“‘The highwayman of Tours!’” he echoed after them. “The only man who ever had the courage to stand before the Abbot of Chalonnes and flaunt him to his face. That dagger there I took from him—with a dozen of his followers at his back. I was the only man in all the country round to meet the Dwarf of Angers—alone—unarmed—in the woods—at night. I killed the Dwarf and threw his body into the waters of the Loire.” He stopped and laughed a long, weird, tormenting laugh that rang through the room like the echo of a ghost. “The man who is my enemy is foredoomed to die!”
A chill crept along my spine. A sullen look spread over the faces of my two captors. They exchanged glances once again and grinned.
“You can’t fool us with talk like that,” said one. “We’re men.”
The scrivener whistled a quick, sharp note and with the ease of a kitten sprang upon the table.
“There is a price upon my head!” he called. Then he pointed to the dagger. “If either of you has the boldness to collect it, let him pluck that weapon from the floor.”
The fellow who had spoken brightened up. He lurched forward. His huge body bent over and his arm reached out to take the scrivener at his word. But his slow brain had reckoned without thought to the consequences. He had no sooner taken a step when the scrivener raised himself on the balls of his feet. He shot through the air with the straightness and speed of an arrow. He landed with all his weight on the back of his enemy. His one hand encircled his throat. The other, by a calculation as unerring as it was quick, caught the dagger by the hilt.
There followed a struggle that I shall not soon forget. The scrivener twisted his lithe body like a snake. He squirmed around and before I could wink was on top of his foe. He was smiling as though he was highly pleased with the dagger now raised ready for the descending blow.
He knew that the second fellow would not allow his companion to be killed. He halted the weapon so that it rested not more than an inch from his opponent’s throat.
“One move and you’re a dead man!” he cried. Then he looked to the side. He saw the other coming on with venom in his eyes.
“Take your choice,” he called to him. “Lay a finger on me and you’re this man’s murderer!”
The fellow stopped. In the twinkling of an eye the scrivener sprang to his feet. He faced the two with his face lit up and a confidence that was amazing. The man with the wounded hand slid his hand into his shirt. He drew forth a long knife with a curved blade. He ran his tongue over his lips to moisten them and with one bound made for his enemy.
I expected to see him run the scrivener through. But once again his quickness surprised me. He sprang onto the table again with even greater suppleness than before. This time he jumped feet foremost. He caught the fellow in the middle of the chest. The knife went flying from his hand and he was hurled back against the wall. His head struck with a thump and his knees buckled under him as he sagged to the floor.
Up to this time the action had been so fast and so unexpected that I was hardly able to take a breath let alone take a part in it. But when I saw the knife flying across the room my senses stirred within me. I saw the second fellow take a hasty glance at the knife. He moved with all his speed towards it. He was stooping over to snatch it up, when I realized the danger we would be in if he were able to get it in his grasp.
I took a flying leap like the scrivener, only I went face down, sliding along the smooth floor. Just as my fingers were curling around the haft, the fellow was upon me. I must have slid under him for he fell over me with all his weight. The breath was knocked out of my body. A thousand stars flicked across my vision. A pain shot over my back. My nose and forehead were crushed against the boards and a smothering made it hard for me even to gasp.
But I clung to the knife with all my strength. My assailant dug his hands into my ribs. He caught my wrist and twisted it till the pain almost made me cry out. He took a firm hold upon my neck and tried to squeeze the life out of me. He bent my arm back till it cracked in the socket. But with all that I clung to my knife as though it was the dearest thing I possessed.
As a last trial the fellow dug his knees into my sides and held them there. I felt the breath leaving me. Then with an effort that took all my strength I jerked myself loose and turned over on my back. The danger now was even greater for my opponent than it was for me. Although I was down, yet I had a freer swing for my weapon. If I had thought in time I could have slashed him on the legs and probably cut him across the arm. But he saw what was coming. He stood up and backed away and in the same moment, with what was left of me, I, too, got hastily to my feet.
In the next second it was all over. A form came hurtling through the air. I felt the breeze of the passing body fan my cheeks. It was the scrivener who had gotten once more upon the table. He must have been on the alert for such an opportunity. He caught my fellow, as he had done the other. His feet struck him a dull blow full on the chest. As though he were a sack of meal he gave a low groan and crumpled together against the wall.
I stood for a moment with my mouth open, gasping for breath. I was anxious, too, about the first fellow whom the scrivener had knocked senseless against the wall. He was slowly opening his eyes and made a move as though he would rise. His hands were behind him. He twisted and pulled to bring them forward. Then it dawned on me that while I was deep in the struggle, the scrivener had tied them securely behind his back.
I felt a clap on my shoulder. There stood the scrivener with his eyes shining. His head was darting from side to side like a bird’s. He danced a few steps on the hard floor and to my surprise leaned over and turned a handspring as smoothly as you please.
“You’re a grand fighter, lad,” he cried. “A grand fighter.” He held out his hand and grasped mine. “And to think I don’t even know your name.”
I took the hint.
“It’s Henri,” I said. “Henri La Mar.”
“Well, Henri,” he answered, “we’ll get along fine together, you and I.” He looked me over and felt of the muscles of my arm. “The makings of a man,” he muttered. “I’ll make the greatest highwayman of you that ever lived.”
I was stopped for an answer.
“I’m not so sure that I want to be one,” I replied, but with a smile that I would not anger him. “It’s a dangerous calling.”
His face fell in astonishment. He looked for all the world as though he had received a blow.
“It’s the only life for a man to live,” he replied. “Ah, if you were to tell the truth, I think you enjoyed the little fight tonight as well as I.”
“I’m glad we won,” I said. Then I fell to thinking. After a while I drawled out, “Listen, master scrivener, haven’t I seen you some time before?”
He waved me aside and pointed to the two on the floor.
“We’ll have to fix them for the night so they’ll do no harm,” he said. “Come, we’ll carry them outside and tie them to the trees.”
We took them one by one and dragged them out of the house. We bound them hand and foot and lashed them each to a single tree. When we had finished the scrivener started to whistle a tune.
“You’re good at that, master scrivener,” I began again.
“Good at what?” he demanded.
“—at tying men to trees,” I suggested slyly.
“I’m good at everything I touch,” he replied. “Never yet has any man got the better of me.”
Then he whistled again louder than before.
“You’re good with the bow and arrow, too, aren’t you?” I insisted.
“I could knock the eye out of you at a hundred paces,” he declared. “I’ll do it if you say the word.”
I laughed.
“I don’t want to be killed yet,” I said. Then I continued, “You’re quick on your feet. You’re a shifty wrestler. Are you just as clever tying messages to the haft of an arrow?”
It was a sly dig, for I had my suspicions and was curious to learn the truth. His answer was just as evasive as before.
“I told you I could do anything,” he replied like a flash, “whether it be tying messages or tying men.”
“And that’s that,” I said. “When a bird won’t sing, no one can force him. No doubt, you’ve heard that saying before, master scrivener?”
“What you hear and what’s the truth,” he came back, “are sometimes at great variance.”
At this the whistling grew louder and, I thought, more piercing than ever. The scrivener stuffed his hands into his shirt and strutted up and down the floor. On each occasion when I turned to him to speak, he threw back his head and let the notes out of him with such vehemence that I was almost deafened. At length he ceased from sheer exhaustion.
“You’re a fine masquerader, master scrivener,” I continued prodding him. “You remind me of a certain fool.”
I meant of course the man with the bauble and the bells whom I happened on at the armorer’s forge.
“It’s a wise man who can play the fool,” he winked. “Sometimes it’s handier than a sharp sword.”
It was plain I could get nothing from him. I raised my brows and looked at him from head to heel. First I grinned. Then I laughed openly.
“You’re a dark, secret man, master scrivener, full of tricks and wiles,” I said. “But with all your cunning I am sure of this, if you shaved the hair from your face and washed the dirt away, you would strongly remind me of a certain gentleman with whom I had a little tiff a week or so ago at Le Brun’s forge.”
He turned on me like a flash.
“Do you know,” said he with an assumption of great dignity, “that when you are in another man’s house, it is wise to take things as they are!”
“Is this really your house?” I asked. “Or are you toying with me?”
He spun on his heel and went to the far end of the room. He came back with a candle in his hand which he had lit at the open fire.
“I’ll show you the rest of it,” he remarked. “Come with me.”
At that he inserted his finger in what seemed to be a knot-hole in the floor. To my surprise he lifted a great door which was set in the wood and bent it back on its hinges. Then, with the light high over his head he passed down a set of broad oak steps. A dank odor of damp air came to my nostrils. I set my foot on the first step with much caution and circumspection. I descended one by one until I stood on a clay floor. All around me were solid stone walls with no opening for air or ventilation. And here and there in these walls I saw recesses which were covered with doors that were of natural wood stained with dirt and finger-marks.
Without stopping the scrivener went to the largest of these closets at the furthest corner of the cave and flung it open. If I was amazed at first I was quite beside myself now, for the whole of it was filled with all sorts of articles of clothing. Some of them were the trappings of soldiers with gilt and lace, others were suits of velvet, quite new, smooth and beautiful to see. Again there were common clothes such as peasants wear or even common laborers in the fields.
“I know now,” I said, “why those fellows called you the ‘Will-o’-the-wisp’. You’re never the same man.”
“When you live as I live, my lad,” he answered, “you must use your wits.” Then he turned my attention to another box or closet in the wall. When this was open he took from it a bundle tied and wrapped with thick cloth and matted straw. As carefully as if it were alive he untied the knots one by one and laid it flat upon the floor.
“My arsenal,” he said. Then he revealed a bow about as long as he was high and with it a quiver containing a score of arrows. So unexpected was this that I let out a gasp.
“I keep them wrapped up like this to protect them from the damp,” he explained. “When trouble comes——”
“But why do you need all these?” I cried. “Surely——”
He rose and pointed sternly towards the stairs.
“If I’m hard pressed, I’m as safe here as in a castle,” he explained. “If they happen to get in the house, I can take refuge here. Look! Don’t you think I could drop them easily enough as they came down those steps one by one?”
It seemed true enough but I was not yet satisfied.
“Suppose they set the house afire?” I asked.
He took me by the arm and led me to the part of the cave that was hidden under the stairs. Here it was gloomiest and very dark. The rays from the candle flickered as though they were sucked by a slight current of air. But where I expected to find a wall there was no wall at all, only a great hole large enough for a man to enter by stooping a little. It was of jagged rock on all sides, as canny a place as I had ever seen.
“Let them fire the house,” he declared. “There is the way to freedom and the open air. It is fifty roods long. The other end leads out among rocks and the roots of ancient trees. You’d never find it in a week’s search not even if I showed it to you beforehand.”
He put the clothing and the bow and arrows back as he had found them and we went again up the stairs.
“Why have you shown me this hiding place of yours, master scrivener?” I inquired. “Aren’t you afraid lest some day I betray you?”
He snapped his fingers.
“It’s known already,” he said. “I’ll have to abandon it. Those two knaves outside will spread the news to all the world.”
“It’s a shame,” I ventured.
“It has served its purpose,” he answered. “But the Highwayman of Tours has a card up his sleeve. Further down the valley of the Loire I have another even better than this.”
He tossed his head and sat down in the chair. He stared for a while at the floor deep in thought. I bethought me of my horse, for it was high time that I looked to him for the night. I went out to where I had tied him. My heart sank in my breast, for he was gone. I went over to where the two knaves had been lashed to the trees. All I found was a couple of strands of rope upon the ground.
I burst into the house hot and excited.
“They have gone!” I cried. “They have taken my horse with them!”
The scrivener never raised his head.
“I was hoping they would go,” he said calmly.
“It’s your fault, master scrivener,” I flung at him. “When you were tying them, I noticed that you didn’t draw the knots tight enough.”
“And that’s true,” he replied looking out from under his brows with a crafty smile. “But, Henri, you wouldn’t like to stand with your back against a tree for the whole night long, now, would you?”
“But my horse?” I said.
“They took that too?” he smiled.
“Of course!” said I.
“Well, well. It’s a great loss, indeed,” he replied. “A great loss.” He rose and yawned. Then he stretched himself. “There’s another way to look at it, Henri. What do you care about the horse when you have me?”
“But I want him back,” I insisted. “I’ve a long——”
“Tut. Tut. Lad,” the scrivener returned. “I know where they’ve taken him. He’ll be at the inn of ‘The Three Crows’. That’s the gathering place for all the desperate characters in the neighborhood. We’ll be there tomorrow and I’ll see to it that you get him back again.”
We came to the ‘Three Crows’ about the middle of the afternoon. The place was set in somewhat from the road and like the scrivener’s house, almost surrounded by trees. It must have been a hundred years old. The walls were of wood rough hewn from the forest. In some places the bark still hung in shreds where it waved in the breeze. The logs themselves were as brown as walnuts where the rain had beaten upon them. The windows were quite small—hardly large enough for a man to climb through and to judge by the cob-webs and dust had not been cleaned for ages.
The scrivener had been swinging along with me the whole day. He was as lighthearted as a kitten. The thought of the danger we were approaching never seemed to enter his mind. Even when we crossed the green that was between the inn and the road he was whistling a tune and smiling away as hard as you please. Then he suddenly grasped me by the arm.
“They are playing bowls,” he exclaimed. “Look there!”
To be sure, I saw two men at the end of a long alley on the green. They were at bowls, as the scrivener said. That is, they had pins set up and were rolling smooth round rocks or stones at them to knock them down. It was nothing new to me for I am sure that you will find the same sport in the smallest village in France. I was about to ask what there was unusual about it all when he clapped me on the back.
“Have you any money?” he demanded with some eagerness.
“A little,” I answered. Then the thought came to me that he made his living by tricks and even more questionable means. For all I knew he might have at the back of his head some scheme or other to rob me of what money I had. So I asked him cautiously, “Why?”
“I’m going to double it,” he replied in an off-hand way.
We made directly for the bowling-place. The scrivener strutted over to the men with all the airs of a great baron with an army at his back. He clapped his hands when a good stroke was made. He let out a loud “ah” when the stone rolled out of its track and missed the pins. He capered from one end of the alley to the other, following the stone and talking to it encouragingly as though it had life. He clapped the players on the back. In short he did all in his power to make a show of himself.
From where I stood it struck me that he was acting like a fool. But at that time I did not know the man. I realized that he could masquerade in a dozen different rôles, but I little imagined that he was able to alter the character of his disposition.
Finally the play came to an end. The winner—a tall gaunt man whose name was Nicole—straightened himself and puffed out his chest. The scrivener was on him in an instant. He shook him by the hand. He beamed in his face.
“A master!” he cried. “You can play almost as well as I can play myself.”
Nicole’s smile faded. He looked down at the scrivener and frowned.
“For ten years,” he said, “I’ve beaten every man who has set his foot upon this green.”
The scrivener struck him a hard blow upon the chest. Then he laughed a high mocking laugh.
“A fine boast!” he cried and snapped his fingers under Nicole’s nose. “Well, the tenth year will be your last.”
The fire gathered in the man’s eye. The blow was humiliating enough but the words cut him like a sharp knife. He swallowed hard and flung one hand out.
“Will you play with me?” he demanded.
“——for money?” asked the scrivener.
“For the clothes on your back, if you will,” was the reply.
At that the scrivener leaped into the air. He placed his hand on the ground and turned a circle as neatly as he had done on the day I met him at the forge. Then he stuck his hand in his shirt and looked as important as a prince.
“Boy!” he called to me as though I were his servant. “Come here and count me ten crowns from my purse.” He turned to Nicole. “This lad of mine carries my wealth. If we are beset by thieves, no one would look to him for the money. Is not that a wise trick?”
He laughed loud again as though he might be proud of his cunning. I hesitated. I tried to make an estimate of what was going on in his mind. I was wavering in uncertainty, when he snapped me a wink from the corner of his eye.
“Not so slow!” he commanded. Then when I counted the money, he threw it contemptuously on the grass. “Ten crowns, Nicole,” he said. “That will be one for every year you have been the master of bowls.”
Nicole drew forth a well-worn leather purse such as merchants carry. With a sly smile he looked sideways at the scrivener and slowly counted out the money. This he threw piece by piece on the grass. It was as though he was trying to shake the scrivener’s nerves with his deliberation.
With a bound the scrivener seized the stone ball. He swung it around his head two or three times, spinning on his heel. He drew far back and came forward on the run. He let out a warning shout. He was about to make the heave when to the amazement of all, his feet slid from under him. The stone rolled harmlessly to the side of the green. The scrivener fell on his back and his heels kicked in the air.
It was a ridiculous situation of course. In the beginning I was burning with anger that he should make such a show of himself. But when I considered the nature of the man, his unexpected whims and fancies, I knew that he was playing a rôle that would be wise enough in the end.
When he arose he looked crestfallen. With a serious expression on his face he brushed the dirt away from his clothes. He even growled under his breath at his poor luck.
Nicole was standing with his arms folded across his chest as proudly as though he were already the victor. He took forth his purse once more and held it dangling in his fingers. With a taunting sneer he winked at me and then turned to the scrivener.
“Another ten?” he asked with raised brows.
“You must be a rich man,” the scrivener replied. “Are you a merchant that you have so much to waste?”
“I make my living from such as you,” Nicole answered, “——who think they can play—and can’t!”
At this cut the scrivener flew into a rage. He threw his arms above his head and paced up and down. He jerked his fists convulsively.
“It was a slip,” he cried. “Only a slip. I know I can do better than that.” He spat upon the ground as though he had finally come to a resolution.
“Henri!” he cried. “Twenty crowns more!” Then in a flash to Nicole, “Have you the courage?” he demanded.
In a trice the coins were on the ground, both mine and the stranger’s. Then they went at it again. At the first stroke the scrivener lagged far behind. At the second his nerves grew more collected. After a little he was skillful enough to topple over all the pins with the one try. As the game went on he began a running talk with Nicole. His voice grew high. He made light of his opponent’s efforts. He counseled him to stand this way or that. He interrupted him at the moment when he was about to cast the stone. He clapped him on the back when he made a bad play and comforted him with the hope that he would do better on the next try. In short he did all in his power to confuse him.
The ruse worked well. Nicole played with a sort of canny caution. But when the scrivener had equaled his score, his nerves gave way on him. He took more time to poise himself before the cast. He fussed about to be sure of his footing. His brows narrowed and an expression of intense seriousness crossed his face.
Towards the end it was nip and tuck. Now Nicole was ahead, now the scrivener. The longer the game lasted, the more boastful my companion became. He took to strutting about between shots like a cock-o’-the-walk. He wanted to double the money he had laid on himself. He shouted aloud that he was the master of the best man in the Kingdom of France. He said he could prove it with a wager that would be the ransom for a prince. Then at last just when Nicole was measuring the green with his eye he let out a whoop, turned one of his somersaults, put his knuckles in his mouth and whistled so shrilly that it rent the very air.
The stone that Nicole held in his hand shot forward. But the scrivener had done his work. It flew in full career down the middle of the green. Then it seemed to strike a tuft of hidden grass for it bounced a little in the air and veered over towards the side. It struck the pins however, but only slightly. Three of the nine were tumbled over and the rest left standing.
The scrivener raised the stone. He walked to the green with his head high. He made the cast without so much as an aim, but I saw that he put all his force behind it. It sped on in a straight line. It crashed in among the pins with the straightness and speed of an arrow. It hit the middle one and sent it leaping over to the side. The stone continued on its course in among the others. They fell one by one in quick succession until the last spun around and rolled in a semi-circle out over the green.
At that the scrivener snapped his fingers and gave a cry. He turned to Nicole.
“You have seven still to make,” he said. “I have only two to win. Will you——”
Nicole had had enough. With a frown of disappointment he waved his hand towards the green and then towards the money.
“It is yours,” he said. “I never played so poorly in my life.”
He was soured to the core. But with all that I picked up the coins and put them in my purse. We went into the inn and sat down at a long oaken table. Soon we had the meat before us and were eating to our hearts’ content.
It was well on towards dark when we finished. One by one the country gossips entered and took their places. The landlord lit the oil lanthorn that hung from the ceiling. Its yellow rays cast flitting shadows about the room. The air was heavy from the odor of the cooking and the dampness of the clay floor. The scrivener eyed every stranger in the place as keenly as though he were cutting him open with a knife. He began to yawn. He bade me fling a coin on the table to pay the score and make ready for bed.
We stood up. We were about to turn when the door of the inn flew open with a bang. I jumped as though the floor had suddenly given way. We both turned. In the next second my heart sank to my shoes, for in the wavering light of the lanthorn I saw De Marsac with half a dozen troopers at his back peering eagerly over his shoulders. He strode to the middle of the floor and whirled searchingly around. When his eyes rested on us, he raised his arm and pointed.
“I knew I would find you here!” he cried. His voice was shaking between joy and anger. “I have caught you like mice in a trap!”
I looked searchingly at the scrivener. He stood with his hands at his side as unmoved as a piece of marble, with only the flicker of a smile playing about the edges of his mouth.
“It is my friend, De Marsac!” he cried. “You have indeed cornered us at last.”
A chill shot down my spine. De Marsac flung out his arm.
“Seize them!” he called. “Bind them till the thongs cut into their flesh. Let one of you stand guard over them for the night.” He spun on his heel. His men rushed at us as though we were mad dogs. In the twinkling of an eye we were thrown to the floor and lashed hand and foot with thongs of deer hide.
De Marsac halted at the door.
“Tomorrow, at the break of day, they are to be hanged upon the nearest tree!”
In the next breath he was lost in the dark.
In another hour the inn was deserted. The scrivener and I lay huddled together on the floor. One of De Marsac’s crew remained guard over us—an ugly fellow with a face scarred with small-pox and earrings in his ears. He must have come from somewhere in the south of France for his language was heavier than the French in our part of the country.
For a while he paced up and down the floor and glanced suspiciously at us at every turn. About midnight he began to yawn and stretch his arms over his head. Then he came and sat on a bench opposite us. The quiet of the place was like a balm for he fell into short naps. He arose and went to the other side of the table (where he could see us) and spread out his elbows. He yawned again and muttered something under his breath. Then little by little his head sank and before long it fell between his arms and he was snoring like the rumble of distant thunder.
As gently as I could I shoved the scrivener in the ribs.
“What’ll we do?” I whispered.
His answer was a gentle touch on the arm.
“Wait!” he said.
I was more than uncomfortable. The thongs were cutting into my wrists and ankles. At my shoulders where the muscles were stretched back a numbness crept over me. The hardness of the floor made me wish that I could stand up and walk a bit. But the worst of all was the dryness that was parching my tongue and mouth.
I heard a cock crow loud and long like the blast of a trumpet as if it would awaken the world. I looked at our captor. He never stirred. His mouth was open and he breathed in heavy sighs.
A door to my left creaked. The rays of the yellow lanthorn were only a little better than the gloom. I wanted to turn but the scrivener pressed his knee against my thigh. Out of the corner of my eye I could see the door open wider and wider but so slowly that I imagined an hour was passing.
Then I saw a face. It was the landlord. I had not noticed him much during the meal but now his nose seemed sharper than ever and the leanness of his face was almost of the keenness of a knife. He had his eyes drawn together and his teeth clenched showing white.
As he came towards us the tassel of his nightcap bobbed about in a little circle and his slippers gave to his steps the softness of a cat’s. His long loose nightgown made him look like a ghost. But he was a kindly ghost at that for he carried a noggin of water in his hand.
Without a word he stooped over the scrivener and moistened his lips. Then he gave me a swallow. Always with one eye on the sleeping guard he made a sign towards the door.
“Guarded!” he whispered, “——from the outside!”
The scrivener’s eyes almost burnt a hole in him so intensely did he look at him.
“Have you no sense?” he demanded in a tone that was low but hard.
The landlord raised his brows slightly as though he did not understand.
“I cannot die with a bad conscience,” muttered the scrivener. “Nor will I die with a murder on my hands.” He stopped a breath and glared even harder than before. “The lad here is a dangerous character. He’ll not give up till the last. He be like to kill some one in the struggle.” He halted but kept his eyes steadily on the landlord as though he would speak with them.
The guard gave a loud sigh. He breathed with a deep moan. His lips quivered like a horse snorting. He tried to raise his head but it fell again like a dead weight across his arms.
Not one of us stirred. The cock crowed again. The sound of it sent my nerves quivering. Then the scrivener spoke again in a voice that was quiet but determined.
“I want you to search the lad there,” he said. “He has a knife in his jacket that can do much harm—or good. Take it away from him. If you have a grain of sense you will understand.”
I felt myself jump in my bonds. On the impulse I wanted to resist. I wanted to throw myself on the scrivener and denounce him for a traitor and a coward. My second thoughts were calmer. I was as good as done for as I was. Was there a hidden understanding between him and the landlord that had a meaning of its own?
Before I could think further the landlord had his hand under my doublet. The dagger which I was to carry to the Abbot of Chalonnes was torn from me with no further ado. For one second he held it under the rays of the lanthorn. The light, dull as it was, shone like a clear stream along the silver haft. In spite of himself he gave a start and looked searchingly from the one of us to the other. Then without a word he shuffled slowly away and disappeared behind the door.
I nudged the scrivener in the ribs. I wanted some kind of explanation to be sure. But all I got was a yawn and a reply that came like a rebuke.
“Go to sleep!”
The scrivener curled up on his side as well as he could. Whether he was feigning or not I cannot tell but before a quarter of an hour had passed he was snoring as loudly as the guard. I was wide awake, alert, for I expected the landlord to return. I felt that something would happen. A half hour passed. A dullness came into my eyes. The thoughts of what had occurred during the day revolved themselves in my mind. A dread of the morning took hold of me, for I realized that the chances were that I was to die. Then a weariness seized me. My head drooped to one side. All kinds of fanciful images started chasing one another in my brain. After that, sheer exhaustion laid a hand on me and with my nose against the scrivener’s shoulder I, too, fell into a slumber.
It was a fitful sleep at best. The dreams that tumbled around in my mind must have made me cry out. I awoke trembling with the sound of my voice still echoing in the air. I started up. To my amazement my bonds no longer held me. I swung my arms to make sure that I was not dreaming and even pinched my leg.
Then I looked about. The lanthorn was still there, lit, burning as it had during the entire night. The guard was as quiet as a mouse with his head down between his arms. I turned my head. No sign of the scrivener could I see. Then it flashed upon me that something had happened while I slumbered and I rose startled to my feet.
It was as if I had been suddenly dropped from the clouds. I wanted to run for it as fast as I could to the door and make my escape while it was possible. With long stealthy steps I made to pass the guard. My eyes were fastened on him with dread and fear. If he should awake I would be even worse off than before.
Then I stopped dead in my tracks. A long sobbing breath came to my throat. The dagger which the landlord had taken from my doublet earlier in the night lay straight before me on the table. It was covered with fresh blood the whole length of the blade. I looked closer. I was about to touch the guard’s shoulder when I recoiled in terror. The back of his coat was torn and in the rent a stream of red oozed slowly down!