"Yes; done!" was the submissive answer.
"Good! Now to get the sword."
"Not so fast," broke in the landlord. "Do you kill, morio, without drawing blood? Look at his dagger."
The leader took the blade, examined it, and then began to call down curses on the head of the imbecile monster. "Clean, save for a thread of cotton," he cried angrily. "You never went near him."
"Yes, yes, master!" replied the creature, eagerly.
"Then, perhaps, you strangled him?" suggested the man.
"No; stab! stab!" reiterated the morio, in an almost imploring tone, shrinking from the glances cast upon him.
"Bah! You stabbed the bed, fool; not the man," roughly returned the other. "The rogue has guessed our purpose and left the room," he continued, addressing the others. "But he's skulking somewhere. Well, knaves, here's a little coursing for us all. Up with you, morio, and find him. Perhaps, though, he may prefer to come down." And the leader called out: "Give yourself up, rascal, or it will be the worse for you."
To this paradoxical threat no answer was returned. Standing in the shadow at the head of the stairs, the jester only gripped tighter the hilt of the coveted sword, while across his vision flashed the picture of the young girl, left helpless, alone! What mercy would they show? The coarse words of the master of the boar and the gibing, loose responses of the company recurred to him, and, setting his jaw firmer, the plaisant peered, with gleaming eyes, down into the semi-gloom.
"You won't answer?" cried the leader, after a short interval. "Smell him out then, rogues."