He tapped his breast significantly.
“To save him!” she repeated stupidly.
“Why,” he said, “I told her ropes were cheap, nights dark—that there were no bars to his window; and I gave her an order made to bearer for a private interview with him.”
“She’s got it now?”
“Unless she’s used it already.”
“If she has! You’ve ruined her, I suppose—thank God for that!”
“I did my best. But the soil’s fruitful. The forest will rise again from its burning. If you’d be beforehand with her—claim his first gratitude—!”
He stopped; a little swift rustle had passed him, and he was alone.
He listened a moment; uttered a small dry chuckle; and then bestirred himself to get a light. He knew where the lamp hung on the wall, and in a little had kindled it. Looking, well-satisfied, round and about him, his eye caught the glint of a pistol lying on the forge. He took up the weapon, and examined it curiously. It was primed and loaded. She had meant it, then? He had been a little sceptical; but now he congratulated himself on his escape. He put the thing into his breast pocket. It was better out of the way, in case of accidents. She might return upon him, with God knew what fresh aberration in her brain.
The night air came in, chill and searching, at the open hatch of the door. He blew the smouldering ashes on the forge into a glow, and fetched a stool and sat down, leaning against the brickwork, to think things pleasantly over. He had no fear of being disturbed from without. Neighbourliness was the last thing encouraged by M. Loustalot. The smithy was no rendezvous for gossips—least of all after dark, when its remoteness and its master’s reputation made it a spot anathema.