"And those bottles of water," said he. "Did we then bring them with us from that place down yonder?" He jerked his head over his shoulder.
The question was so sudden and so startling that Oliver sank back in his seat, with all the strength gone out of his back—and he was just beginning to feel more easy. He could not speak a word in answer, but he nodded his head.
"Then give them to me," said the other, sharply. And Oliver saw the delicate pointed fingers hook in spite of themselves.
But Oliver was no longer the Oliver that had sat on the bench in front of the inn at Flourens that little while ago; he had passed through much of late, he had gained wisdom, shrewdness, cunning. Instead of helplessly handing the two phials over to the other, as he might have done a few hours before, he suddenly pushed back his chair, and rose to his feet. Not far from him was a window that looked out upon the street; he stepped quickly to it, and flung it open. "Look!" he cried, in a ringing voice. "I know you now—you and your servant. You are devils! You are stronger than I, but I have some power." He drew forth the two bottles from his pocket. "See!" said he, "here is what you have set your soul upon, and for which you desired to kill me. Without you promise me all that I ask, I will fling them both out upon the pavement beneath. And what then? They will be broken, and the water will run down into the gutter and be gone."
There was a moment of dead silence, during which Oliver stood by the open window with the two phials in his hand, and the master sat looking smilingly at him. After a while the smile broke into a laugh.
"Come, Oliver," said he, "you have learned much since I first saw you at Flourens. You are grand in your heroics. What, then, would you have of me, that you thus threaten?"
Oliver thought for a moment. "I would have you let me go from here safe and sound," said he.
"Very good," said the other. "And what else?"
"That you promise I shall suffer no harm either from you or your servant Gaspard."