“Don’t think I’m trying anything—come here.”
They went on, the little bent man ahead, holding the candle well up. His room was at the far end of the long house. When they reached it, he closed the door and fixed the candle on the table in some of its own grease. Then he pointed Follett to the one stool in the little cell-like room, and threw himself face down on the bed.
Follett, still standing, waited for him to speak. After a moment’s silence he grew impatient.
“Come, come! What would you be saying if you were talking? I can’t wait here all night.”
But the little man on the bed was still silent, nor did he stir, and after another wait Follett broke out again.
“If you want to talk, talk, I tell you. If you don’t want to, I can say all I have to say, quick.”
Then the other turned himself over on the bed and half sat up, leaning on his elbow.
“I’m sorry to keep you waiting, but you see I’m so weak”—the strained little smile came to his face—“and tremble so, there’s so much to think of—do you hear those women scream—there! did you hear that?—but of course not. Now—wait just a moment—have you come to kill me?”
“You and those two other hellions—the two that took me and that boy out that night to bury us.”
“Did you think of the consequences?”