Peace had with him one of his long, thin screws, and if any attack had been made on his place of refuge he had made up his mind to fasten himself in one of the rooms by means of the screw, but as the pursuing party had left him unmolested in his retreat there was no occasion to have recourse to such an alternative.
He felicitated himself upon the successful nature of his ruse. It was not likely the enemy would return that way, and if they did it was still less likely that they would make any attempt to storm him in his castle.
He was therefore determined to remain concealed till such time as he might reasonably suppose that his enemies had given up the chase as hopeless.
The old habitation in which he found himself was cheerless and depressing to the last degree. He soon found out that it was infested with rats, for he heard them squeaking and scampering about in all directions.
Fond as he was of animals, rats were not included in the list. He held them in the greatest abhorrence, and so when the throng of persons on the outside had taken themselves off he stamped and knocked against the walls to scare away his four-footed associates.
The house was miserably dark and dismal, and he would have been greatly relieved if he had a light.
But this was not to be thought of; if he ignited his wax taper it would most likely betray him, for anybody passing the house would be apprised of his presence by the gleam of light from one of the windows. He had therefore no other alternative than to endure the gloom of the place as he best could.
An hour passed away—an hour of misery and suspense—an hour of bitterness and depression.
Still Peace did not deem it safe as yet to sally forth.
He might pass the night in the old mansion and leave by early dawn, but he was not disposed to do so. Sleep would of course be out of the question.