As a preliminary measure, the landlord locked the door. Not only did he lock it, but he bolted it at the top and at the bottom, and ran the chain across. Then he looked at the clock. Ten minutes to ten. Diggory Fargus had promised to come at half-past nine. Probably he had purposely held off when he saw that the soldiers were at the inn. He even might have had so tender a regard for his own skin as to go back again. God grant that that were so! He even might not have meant to come at all. The landlord prayed with all his soul that Diggory Fargus and his men might not appear. The loss of the King was effaced for the time being from his mind by this new matter.
The security of his own person was involved in it, and the immunity of that sacred thing was of even greater moment to Gamaliel than the loss of a King’s ransom. All his life he had had a holy dread of violence. God in heaven be merciful to him a sinner, and keep away that ruthless sailor!
The landlord looked at the clock again. Five minutes to ten. Diggory Fargus was already twenty-five minutes behind his time. But there was hardly any comfort in the thought. Hours must elapse ere Captain Culpeper could come to his aid, unless by a miracle the King were retaken immediately. A little bitterly the landlord reflected that miracles did not happen to him. Was not his life stern, terrible, inexorable matter of fact? At least, it seemed so then.
The landlord fell once again to his principal occupation of that tragic day. He began to hobble up and down the kitchen, with ever and anon an anxious eye for the clock.
There might be hours of this form of torture. If there were, Gamaliel felt that surely he must go out of his mind. It was a suspense to which there would be no end. There was no limit to the hour at which Captain Culpeper might return to claim the two persons left in his custody. It might be an hour, or it might be twelve; it might be a day, a week, or a month. But be that as it may, his instructions were perfectly clear. He must detain those two guilty persons at his inn, by force, if necessary, or he would forfeit his life.
The first stroke of ten had barely struck, when the landlord caught a sound that froze the blood in his veins. The noise of persons on foot coming down the bridle-path rose above the distant roar of the sea. He heard rough voices. The kitchen door was tried; a lusty smack was delivered upon it.
“Open the door, mate!” cried the great voice of Diggory Fargus.
The landlord did not stir. He leant against the wall for support; he had not the strength of a mouse.
“Open the door, mate, d’ye hear me?” demanded Diggory Fargus.
A terrific blow shook the lusty oak. Still the landlord leant sickly against the wall.