The lad took the candle and hobbled up the stairs.
At the stairhead he stopped and looked hard at Leicester, who turned his face slightly and adjusted his spectacles.
Stumpy, who had been warned to be careful, took the candle and thanked the lad.
Then the two Spaniards entered the room.
Leicester lay on the bed for an hour, without moving—plotting, planning; and Stumpy, after a prolonged entreaty that he would undress and get some rest, desisted and sat down patiently to wait until his master and preserver, and hero—for Stumpy considered Leicester to be everything that was courageous and noble and good—should choose to move.
Leicester rose at last full of self-reproach.
"I had forgotten you," he said. "You should have got to bed. Come, let us get some sleep. You want it badly enough."
As he spoke, and commenced undressing, their candle sputtered and went out.
Leicester took no notice, and Stumpy, after a moment's grumbling at having to undress in the dark, was just getting into one of the beds—there were two in the room—when Leicester said: