“Come to the window, Sir, and we’ll enlighten the present generation; I’m the grand Porkendillo, Sir, and—”
“Now, then, open this here door,” growled a savage voice in the gallery.
“Begone, slave,” cried the voice from out of the dark, and then to Mr Smith’s horror, a short figure crossed to the window, and he could see the outline of a smooth bald head upon the blind, which was directly afterwards dragged down and wrapped round the person into whose room the fugitive had run.
A light now broke upon Mr Smith; here was the real Simon Pure; but what a position to be in, locked in the same room with a madman—a shaven-headed lunatic, escaped from some private asylum.
“My Lord; Most Grand one, open the door and admit your slave,” came in a hoarse whisper through the keyhole.
“Is the banquet prepared?” said the madman.
“Yes, my lord,” croaked the keeper.
“Is Bootes there? Have Arcturus, Aldebaran, Orion, and Beta Pi assembled?”
“Yes, my lord, and it’s done to a touch,” growled the keeper.
“Prostrate thyselves, then, slaves, and let the winds all blow and boom. I come. Ha! a spy,” cried the madman, rushing at Mr Smith, who in his great horror leaped upon the bed, and buried himself beneath the clothes in which he enveloped himself so closely, that his adversary could not drag him forth.