“I am wholly aware of it,” retorted Peregrine. This insistence on the matter displeased him.
“I will now,” continued Menippus still calmly, “send for food. You must eat.”
“I need food strangely little,” quoth Peregrine, “seeing I have gone hungry the whole day, and, I judge, well into the night.”
“I gave you a cordial when we carried you within,” returned Menippus briefly. “There was food and drink in its strength.” He went to the door and clapped his hands.
Into the room came Castrano, the negro, bearing on a tray dishes of various meats, and decanters of wine. He placed them on a table and withdrew. Peregrine got off the couch. He and Menippus ate together. He found the meal exceeding palatable. On its conclusion Menippus turned towards him.
“I will now show you the room where you will sleep,” he said. He lead the way along a passage and to a door. Beyond it was a winding stair in a turret. Menippus entered the room with him; a small place it was, furnished with necessities and naught beyond.
“The place is at your full disposal,” said Menippus. “I make you my guest in confidence. There is but one stipulation I would put to you. The winding stair beyond your chamber leads to precincts which are my concern alone. I pray you leave them unmounted. Since you are a man it is safe to make this request. An’ you were a woman it would send you up them in haste at the first opportune moment.”
“Humph!” said Peregrine, leaving the cynicism unanswered.
“And now I bid you good-night,” said Menippus.
The Sage departed Peregrine sat down on his bed. By the light of a candle he surveyed the place. The walls were ochre-washed; the floor bare board, none too clean. Cobwebs hung about the ceiling; a waiting spider or two made dark blots on the soft grey nets. The bed was a straw mattress on wooden trestles, and covered by a somewhat mangey bearskin. A wooden chair, a rough oak chest, and a table made up the remainder of the furniture. Above the table was a slit of a window set far forward in a deep embrasure.