“Have you any rats over there with you?” asked Ethan, after a time.
“Faith and I have; I can see a dozen pairs of little, red, shining eyes looking at me from the corners now.” Longsword stamped heavily upon the stone floor and then chuckled. “Sure they are easy frightened, though. They run off at a sound.”
The day passed slowly. They became heavy-eyed and weary of talking through the darkness, and stretching themselves upon the damp floor they slept. They were awakened by the rays of the woman’s lamp shining in upon them. Meg stood in the passage without, and in her hands were some mouldy, hard-looking crusts, and two cracked stone jugs containing water.
“Good-evening, my gallant rebels,” she saluted, grinning.
“Is it evening?” asked Longsword, his eyes blinking at the light.
“Ay, that it is; and I’ve brought your suppers.” She passed the bread and water through small openings at the bottoms of their cell doors. “Bread and water,” she chuckled. “Hah, you’ll not grow very plump upon such fare as that.”
“Plump,” growled the Irish dragoon, regarding the crust in his hand with high disfavor. “Why a rat would starve upon such stuff. And it’s as hard as a block of wood.”
He hammered the bread against the wall as he spoke; it gave out a sound not unlike that which a block of wood would give. The woman writhed with laughter.
“Ah, you are a rogue, I can see that,” she cried. “And like all the Irish, you will joke. But this one,” and she turned to the door of Ethan’s cell, “is different.”
Somehow the laughter had gone out of her voice now, and she held up the lamp so that she might get a better view. Ethan stood silently leaning against the damp wall, and her eyes snapped with dislike as she regarded him.