He could not think who would be knocking, but he did not for one moment think that it was a woman come for love of him. He was not frightened. The knocking was of a piece with the romance of the day before. It gave him a thrill of delight to think that the knocker might be in peril and the knock a warning to himself.
“Why not?” he thought. “I’m a foreigner here, as well as a heretic. Why shouldn’t there be a sort of Bartholomew massacre beginning?”
He crept to the door. The key was in the keyhole; he could see nothing there but darkness. By the fanlight, he could tell that the corridor beyond was almost pitch dark. The knocker paused, as though he had heard the creak of his approach.
“Who is there?” Hi whispered. “Who is there?”
To his amazement, Rosa answered him.
“It is I, Rosa. Rosa Piranha. Open, Hi; open quick.”
He opened the door swiftly yet silently; Rosa glided in.
“It’s only me, Hi,” she whispered. “I thought I’d never make you hear. Lock the door, lock it, but don’t make a sound. Oh, my God, my God.”
“I’ll strike a light,” he said. “Whatever is the matter? I’ll have a light in a minute.”
“No light,” she said. “Don’t strike a light. We might be seen from outside.”