“The old usurer is at home, I know,” muttered Stephano to himself; for the moment he had knocked a gleam of light, peeping through a crevice in an upper casement, had suddenly disappeared. He now rapped more loudly at the door with the handle of his heavy broadsword.
“Ah! he comes!” muttered the bandit-chief, after another long pause.
“Who knocks so late?” demanded a weak and tremulous voice from within.
“I—Stephano Verrina!” cried the brigand pompously: “open—and fear not.”
The bolts were drawn back—a chain fell heavily on the stone floor inside—and the door opened, revealing the form of an old and venerable-looking man, with a long white beard. He held a lamp in his hand: and, by its fitful glare, his countenance, of the Jewish cast, manifested an expression denoting the terror which he vainly endeavored to conceal.
“Enter. Signor Stephano,” said the old man. “But wherefore here so late?”
“Late, do ye call it. Signor Isaachar?” ejaculated the bandit, crossing the threshold. “Meseems there is yet time to do a world of business this night, for those who have the opportunity and the inclination.”
“Ah! but you and yours turn night into day,” replied the Jew, with a chuckle intended to be of a conciliatory nature: “or rather you perform your avocations at a time when others sleep.”
“Every one to his calling, friend Isaachar,” said the brigand chief. “Come! have you not made that door fast enough yet? you will have to open it soon again—for my visit will be none of the longest.”
The Jew having replaced the chains and fastened the huge bolts which protected the house-door, took up the lamp and led the way to a small and meanly-furnished room at the back of his dwelling.