The thin man smiled. To Phil Marsham his face seemed to have grown like pictures of the Devil in old books. He held the knife against the shrieking fat man's breast and pressed it the harder when Martin clutched at his wrist, then with a fierce "Pfaw!" of disgust released his victim and stood erect. "Pig!" he whispered. "See!" The point of the knife was red with blood. "Th'art not worth killing. Thy thin blood would quench the fire of a fleshed blade."
With that, he deliberately spat in the man's face, and turning, went off alone.
They were two sober men that watched him go, for the fumes of liquor had fled from the fat man's brain as he lay with the knife at his heart, and of their wine Phil Marsham had taken not a drop. Striding away, the thin man never looked behind him; and still showing them only his back, he passed out of sight.
Martin remained as pale as before he had been red. He rubbed his sore breast where the knife had pricked him, and gulped three or four times. "Ah-h-h!" he breathed. "God be praised, he's gone!" He made the sign of the cross, then cast a sharp glance at Phil to see if he had noticed. "God be praised, he's gone! He hath a cruel humour. He will kill for a word, when the mood is on him. I thought I was a dead man. Ah-h-h!"
The colour returned to his round face and the sly, crafty look returned to his eyes. "We'll find him at Bideford, though, and all will go well again. He'll kill for a word—nay, for a thought! But he never bears a grudge—against a friend. We'll lie tonight, my lad, with a roof over our heads, and by dawn we'll take the road."
[CHAPTER IV]
THE GIRL AT THE INN
As they came at nightfall to the inn whither Martin had been determined they should find their way, a coach drawn by two horses clattered down the village street and drew up at the inn gate before them. There was calling and shouting. Hostlers came running from the stables and stood by the horses' heads. The landlord himself stood by the coach door to welcome his guests and servants unloaded their boxes. The coachman in livery sat high above the tumult, his arms folded in lofty pride, and out of the coach into the light from the inn door there stepped an old gentleman who gallantly handed down his lady. The hostlers leaped away from the bridles, the coachman resumed the reins, and when the procession of guests, host, and servants had moved into the great room where a fire blazed on the hearth, the horses, tossing their heads, proceeded to the stable.
All this the two foot-weary travellers saw, as unobserved in the bustle and stir, they made their way quietly toward the rear of the building. When they passed a dimly lighted window Martin glanced slyly around and with quick steps ran over to it and peeped in. Whatever he sought, he failed to find it, and he returned with a scowl. The two had chosen the opposite side of the house from the stable and no one perceived their cautious progress. Martin repeated his act at a second window and at a third, but he got small satisfaction, as his steadily darkening frown indicated.
They came at last to a brighter window than any of the others, and this he approached with greater caution. He crouched under it and raised his great head slowly from the very corner until one eye saw into the room, which was filled with light and gave forth the clatter and hum of a great domestic bustling. Here he remained a long time, now ducking his head and now bobbing it up again, and when he came away a smile had replaced his frown. "She's here," he whispered. "From now on we've a plain course to sail, without rock or sandbar."