Schultz knocked on the pane of a tiny window. He used the silver coin as a knocker. Then silence—ominous silence. Albert felt that his father was holding his breath and he, too, caught his breath and sensed the mystery around him.
“The lazy louts are asleep,” the coachman murmured.
David Zorn passed his hand over his head and emitted a grim grunt.
The coachman knocked again with the silver coin.
“Open the door—a traveler wants admittance!” he bellowed angrily.
There was a stirring inside the little house and a thud as of one rolling off a bench.
“The devil take the Jews! Tausend Donner Sakrament! They don’t give a fellow a moment’s rest even on Easter Eve!”
A gruff voice was heard within, a clatter of a bolt—of a heavy iron hasp—the clanking of chains—the grating of a key in a lock, the creaking of hinges, two tall gates swinging open slowly, and Albert beheld a bit of sky above the horses’ heads. The sky appeared narrow and high, as if seen from a deep trench.
A short, heavy-set man, with a mustache the color of dry sand and the stiffness of bristle, appeared at the opening; between the swinging gates. He held a lantern in his hand, the yellow glare of the tallow candle inside fell grotesquely over his patched jerkin and saffron-colored hose.
Schultz put the silver coin into the hand of the man with the lantern.