Todor banged loudly and called for help, but there was no reply. He was very near to tears as he went to the end of the porch and crouched there, wondering what he should do. The church was almost dark now, lonely and silent as a tomb. Suddenly a rustle in a red curtain, which hung across a corner, brought his heart into his mouth. He was sure that the curtain shook, and now that he fastened his eyes on it, was there not a bright eye gazing at him through a slit? As he watched breathlessly, a little old man suddenly popped out a bald head.
‘So you got locked in, too?’ he chuckled. He came out and stood before Todor, a dry, wheezy, ragged, old man, the beggar who sat at the church door during the day, asking for alms.
‘How can we get out?’ gasped Todor. ‘Help me!’
‘I don’t want to get out,’ said the beggar. ‘You see, I share the Lord’s House with Him.’ With that he brought out a paper bag, and, settling himself on the flags beside Todor, took out a lump of bread and some cheese.
‘Do you sleep here?’ asked Todor, amazed.
‘Yes, in summer. It is a safe, quiet place; and the Lord, being a good, kind God, does not object. He’s glad to save an old man from the street.’
‘Look here!’ said Todor. ‘Put your hands on your knees and let me get on your shoulder and see if I can open a window.’
The old man did as Todor requested, but the windows were as tight as if they had been soldered, and an iron bar across the middle of each of them would have prevented Todor from squeezing through even if he could have opened them. The church was quite dark now, and after Todor had gone back to the porch disconsolately, the beggar lighted a candle and with a few drops of hot wax sealed it to the floor.
‘Have a pear,’ he said, kindly, wiping one on his dirty sleeve; and Todor, who was thirsty, peeled it carefully with his pocket knife and ate it with relish. The old man then began telling Todor stories of the strange eastern city in which they were staying—stories of refugees and bandits, of their secret meeting-places, and their caves in the mountains, until Todor forgot that he would have to spend the night on the cold stones. But as they were talking there came the shuffle of feet on the steps outside, and the murmur of voices.
In a flash the beggar knocked over the candle. ‘Don’t tell on me, don’t tell on me!’ he squeaked, as he flew to the curtain.