  It was close on to midnight when we left the Dwarf and his cave. We headed for the south, at first over rocks and stones and through the depths of the woods; then we came upon a white ribbon of a road, which we followed till the dawn overtook us. We reached the inn at the cross-roads in less than an hour—an old stone house covered with moss and windows grilled and barred. There was no one about, so with a bit of a stick which I had found, I knocked on the panels of the heavy oaken door. We stood and waited. There came to our ears not a sound, not even the barking of a dog or the rattle of pots and pans. I knocked again, this time more violently than before. The echo died away across the empty fields. Then I heard a window creak over our heads and a nightcap with a tassle to it appeared. “What do you want?” said a voice. “Is this an inn?” I returned. “Is this the inn of the Cross-roads?” The voice squeaked. “Cross-roads?” it said as though it did not quite understand. “Who are you that come knocking at my door?” “We’re honest travelers,” called Charles. “We want a bite to eat and then we’ll be on our way.” At this my rashness showed itself. “We’re friends of the Abbot of Chalonnes!” I added. I thought thus to bring the matter to a head. If there was any suspicion in the man, the mention of the Abbot’s name ought to be enough to soften his fears. For a moment there was no answer. Then his voice began again, this time in a low coaxing tone. “—the Abbot of Chalonnes,” he repeated slowly as though he was turning the name over in his mind. “These are dangerous times, my son. Have you, by any chance, a proof that you are a friend of the Abbot of Chalonnes?” I drew the dagger from my shirt and held it high in my hand. “Here!” I called. “Can you see this?” The voice creaked like a rusty hinge. “And what is that?” it asked. “It’s a token,” I replied with some show of anger, for the caution of the man prodded me like a knife. “We were sent here. We were told that you would recognize this. It belongs to the Abbot of Chalonnes.” The man coughed to clear his throat. His voice changed to a hasty wheeze. A cracked smile curled around his mouth. “I was only toying with you, my lad,” he said. “Of course I recognize it. Of course it belongs to the Abbot of Chalonnes. Bide a bit. Bide there and I’ll open the door to you and let you in.” With that he shuffled off from the window wheezing and muttering to himself. We were puzzled at this odd reception. I looked at Charles with doubt written clearly on my face. “The Dwarf has made some mistake,” he began. But the rattle of bolts and chains interrupted him and the head with the nightcap poked itself sooner than we had expected through the chink in the door. We stepped over the threshold. There was hardly a ray of the sun’s light in the room. Besides, the odor that struck our nostrils made us draw back. We saw now, indistinctly of course, the man who had spoken to us from the window. He was clad in a long loose nightgown of a dirty flannel and had a bend to his shoulders like the curve in a pot. His jaw seemed to have no firmness for it hung loose in his head and twisted from side to side with the motion of a cow chewing its cud. His eyes were small and as sharp as a fox’s like two cunning little beads. And when he pulled off his cap with the tassel to it, to make us a kind of salutation, a great shock of unkempt greasy hair fell down over his neck. “I am glad to welcome you to my house, sirs,” he said with his voice reaching a high piping note. I looked to Charles to hear what he would say, for to tell the truth I was now even more anxious to get away from this hole than I was before bent on getting in. “Do you know the Dwarf of Angers?” he demanded. The old man started to rub his hands in one another and stuck out his chin. A slow encouraging grin spread over his face. “Of course I do,” he said and repeated it. “Why of course I do. Are you a friend of his, too?” he ended with a snap. “He sent us here,” continued Charles. “We have enemies. He told us you would give us help.” At this the man leaned forward and peered closely into our faces. Then he began to laugh in the same cackling tone that I had heard from the window. He stepped to one side and bowed almost to the floor and made a motion with a sweep of his hand. “If you will sit down,” he said, “I will bring you something to eat.” He made off in a shuffling gait dragging his feet along the bare boards of the floor. In a few minutes he returned with a wooden bowl of gruel steaming hot and two large wooden spoons. By this time we were able to look around and make an estimate of the place. The room was like a stable for filth. The one long table that stood in the middle was cut and scarred with figures where men had dug into it with their knives. Cobwebs hung in every nook and corner. An old lamp was fastened to a slab of wood on the wall, but even if it had been lit, I think there would have shone little light through it, for it was as black as the sooty rafters over our heads. To all this there was an air of confusion everywhere. A chair with the legs broken off lay in a corner. A great hole was worn in the bottom panels of the door that led to the kitchen where a dog had by slow degrees pawed his way through. Alongside of it, on the wall, the plaster had a large dent in it where something had struck and just beside it a red smear that reminded me of the color of human blood. You may be sure that we ate little. Even if the food had been savory the sight of the old fox of a landlord was enough to take our appetites away, for he hung over us like a sinister shadow with his nightcap in his hands and his beady eyes watching every morsel as it passed down our throats. “The Dwarf of Angers,” he reminded us, when we laid our spoons aside, “—he’s a grand man, isn’t he?” Then came that short cackling laugh that stabbed me like a knife. “He saved us from death,” I remarked. The old fellow gave a start as though he was suddenly clapped on the shoulder. “He did, did he?” he said. And then after a while, “And he sent you to me?” He cackled again as though he had reason to be highly flattered. “And by any chance did he give you a message?” Here I drew the dagger from my shirt and laid it on the table. “This!” said I. And, with the word, looked him square in the eye in hopeful anticipation. He pounced upon the weapon like a greedy child. He took it between his skinny fingers and turned it over and over. A crafty smile sharpened his features so that his face resembled a rat’s. With his thumb he examined the silver of the haft. He snapped the blade till it sang. “That dagger,” I said as though he needed some urging to entirely understand, “belongs to the Abbot of Chalonnes.” But his eyes were fastened like glue upon it, so that all the answer I got was a sort of mumbling. “Ay, ay,” he said, “—the Abbot of Chalonnes.” Then he looked up suddenly. His jaws stopped shaking and his smile faded. “Where do you come from?” he demanded with a jerk. I was getting weary of his dallying. I was sure that he knew more than he pretended. There was something at the back of his head that prompted him to doubt us, so with no more ado I burst forth, “Look here,” I began. “We are on our way to find the Black Prince. We have traveled a long distance and have been beset by enemies. We have been nearly killed half a dozen times. We’re in a strange country and need a word of advice. Maybe we ought to have a guide. Can’t you see that your friends are our friends?” I pointed to the dagger in his hands. “Isn’t that proof enough for you?” At the mention of the dagger his hands clasped together with a quick convulsive motion and his jaws took to wagging again. “Ay, ay,” he muttered, “it’s worth a hundred crowns, if it’s worth a groat.... It was fine of the Dwarf of Angers to send it to me.” I jumped from my seat. As though he were suddenly attacked, the old man straightened up. A flash came to his eye and a sternness came upon him that was unexpected. I think if I had taken another step he would have showed fight. “But the dagger is not for you,” I cried. “It’s only a sign that we are no frauds, no imposters.” I reached out to take the weapon from his hand. He swung around with the quickness of an eel and backed away from me. I made another try. This time he shot a look at me and raised the dagger as though he would strike. My blood was up. All in all I felt that he was not what the Dwarf had represented him to be, so with the single thought of getting my dagger back at any cost, I made a lunge to grasp him by the arm. Then by sheer strength I could wrest it from his grasp. “Back!” His voice was shrill but strong with the cackle entirely gone. “Back! I’ll kill you if you make a move!” He drew his arm far over his head. There was wickedness in his eyes that told me he meant all that he said. For a second I stood there irresolute. Then out of the corner of my eye I saw Charles flit past me. His arm shot out. It caught the old fellow by the wrist. With one jerk his fingers opened. The dagger dropped clattering to the floor. One bound, I had it in my hand and in the next second it was tucked away in my shirt. Then came a surprise. As though the affair was a joke the old man leaned over and clapped himself time and time again on the knee. His voice rose and fell in a kind of whistling laugh. He coughed and sputtered from sheer mirth and to cap it all reached out his hand for me to shake. “A fine lad!” he exclaimed. “The both of you are fine lads. I know now there’s no deceit in either of you.” He laughed again. The cackling grew stronger than ever. “What is it you say you want? A guide to take you on your way? Ay, ay. A guide. But no harm meant, mind you. No harm—” He shuffled, bent over, towards the door, where he stood for a minute looking back at us. Then with a quick nervous snap he jerked out, “I’ll aid you all I can. Will you stay here till I come back?” With a kind of a stumbling skip he was outside and had closed the door behind him. We sat and waited till the shuffling of his feet died away on the road. Then we arose and walked about the room, more from restlessness, I am sure, than from curiosity. If it had not been for the advice of the Dwarf, I should have said that we were fallen into the thieves’ den. The place was in no sense an inn for there was no sign of provision for the comfort or entertainment of a guest. Besides it was too far removed from the course of travel to be of any profit. “I don’t like the looks of it,” remarked Charles. “There have been knives flying here—and throats cut. That smear on the wall is hardly dry.” “We ought to get out,” I said. “We were safer in the Dwarf’s cave.” “Let us wait till the old rat returns,” he answered. “There will be time then.” The heaviness of the place made me feel that I was standing in the face of danger. Everything I touched seemed to warn me that we were falling deeper and deeper into a trap. The broken chair, the hole in the plaster, the blood upon the wall, the very darkness of the room, but above all the slow-witted craftiness of the old man, sent the creeps along my spine and made me anxious. A half hour passed. We had paced the length of the room a dozen times. We had sat down and risen again more than once. Charles went to the door. “I’ll take a look up the road,” he said. “If he’s not in sight, we’ll go.” I turned to follow him. He snapped the latch. He rattled it. He shook it with all his might. He faced me with his face gone white. “We’re locked in!” he exclaimed. “The old rat has made us prisoners.” I ran back to the door that led to the kitchen. “We’re caught!” I called. “The windows are too small for us to crawl out. The old fellow has gone to summon our enemies.” “The truth of it,” said Charles, “is that we have come to the wrong place. The inn of the Cross-Roads must be further down the highway.” “Well?” I said. “What’s to be done?” He motioned me to the long oaken bench that lay at the table. “We’ll hammer down the door,” he replied. “Do you take that end. I’ll take this——” It was as much as we could do to lift it. We held it lengthwise towards the door. Then with a run we crashed the end into the lower panels. The echo was like thunder in the room. The door trembled on its hinges and the lock creaked. Again we drew back. Again we came forward. The door bent in the middle and a long crack let the light in from the outside. “Once more,” cried Charles, “and we’ll be free.” We took a short rest and caught our breath. The third time the end of the bench crashed against the cross-piece in the middle. There was a noise of splintering wood. I thought the house was tumbling about our ears. The door was torn from its hinges and with a clap fell towards the outside flat on the road. I blinked against the bright light of the sun. Then I recoiled, for not ten feet away there came running the landlord, panting for dear life, with his mouth open and his beady eyes glittering with the fire of anger. At his side were two men, rough fellows, who looked as though they might slit your throat for a copper groat. To my dismay one of them was the man from whom I had escaped while we were swimming in the river. “There they are!” cried the landlord pointing at us with his skinny finger. “They’re tearing my house down. Stop them!” His jaw wriggled from side to side and his hands shook with excitement. His voice which began in a high shrill cackle turned to a shaking laugh. “That one there” (he meant me) “wants to know how he can go to the Black Prince. Ha! Ha! Ha!” In the next breath they were upon us. |
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