After some moments of silence, the watchman seated himself on a piece of the rock.
The wind, increasing in violence, blew with irresistible force. Great clouds from time to time veiled the pale disc of the moon, and the door of the sentry-box, left open, was flapping with a loud noise.
“If you wish to be of some use,” said Peyrou, “take that end of the rope there on the ground, and fasten the door of my cell, because the wind will continue to rise.” The Bohemian looked at the watchman with an astonished air, and hesitated to obey for a moment.
“You wish to shut me up in there. You are cunning, watchman.”
Peyrou bit his lips, and replied:
“Fasten that door on the outside, I tell you, or I will take you for a bad fellow.”
The Bohemian, seeing nothing disagreeable in satisfying the watchman, picked up the rope, passed it through a ring screwed to the door, and tied it to a cramp-iron fixed in the wall.
The watchman, seated, was attentively watching the movements of his companion. When the knot was tied, Peyrou approached it, and said, after examining it a moment:
“As sure as God is in heaven, you are a sailor!”
“I, watchman?”