With that he produced from his side pocket a pistol, the like of which I had never seen before. It was the Colt revolver, for discharging five shots. You loaded it in front, and with this object in view, you had to shove out the cartridge cylinder and sprinkle powder out of the powder-flask in every loop-hole; at the end of the bullet was a nail, which had to be made firm with a cork-stopper, then the bullet had to be driven into the barrel by means of a hammer and ramrod, then the cartridge cylinder had to be fastened down again into its place, and pyramids of priming powder piled on the top of it—while the enemy was supposed to be looking on all the time and watching good-naturedly to see what would come of it all.
Friend Valentine had immense confidence in his wondrous firearm.
"You can see that I am prepared for every conceivable emergency. My faith, I will sell my life dearly! I may tell you, for you will not betray me. Beneath this Pagan Altar is a cave, the existence of which is known only to the initiated. I have selected it for my hiding-place. When the chase against me begins, and a whole brigade of gendarmes marches out to seize me, I will creep into this cave; victuals and brandy for a whole week are already there for me; let them riot round me then as they like."
I could not help laughing at these wise precautions. But friend Valentine's explanations became still more fiery.
"My friend! a single narrow little path leads to this cave. The bears used possibly to resort thither in the days when bears camped in the beech districts. If they attempt to storm me there, I can defend myself with this revolver against a whole host."
All this time I had been employed in piling up a nice little heap of dry twigs and leaves, which I now set on fire with my flint and steel.
Friend Valentine caught me nervously by the hand.
"What are you doing, my friend?"
"Lighting a fire, my friend."
"Why, my friend?"