Solomon Strange felt a cold chill creep over him as he seated himself in the robber captain’s private apartment, which was furnished with all the elegance that heart could wish and gold procure. An oil lamp was burning on a chintz-covered stand, lighting up the room.
“You’ve a cozy lair here, Dungarvon,” said Strange, gazing around, with apparent admiration.
“Yes, one into which I defy the lightning’s bolt to enter,” returned the captain, as he crossed the room, and took from an alcove in the wall a bottle of brandy and a couple of silver goblets, which he placed upon the table. “But come, Black Bear, wheel your chair up to the table and let’s drink to our success.”
Strange could not deny the robber chief’s request, for he was then an honored guest in his house, so he moved his chair to the table and filled the goblets with the brandy. Then with one hand he parted the hairy mask from his lips, and with the other he lifted the goblet, and with a “Here’s to you, captain,” dashed off the fiery liquid at a draught.
After several glasses had been drank, Dungarvon seized a rope communicating with some other room and jerked it violently. Strange heard the faint tinkle of a bell, and a moment after the wall on the side opposite from that through which they had entered, rolled apart, and a slim, pale youth of some twenty years entered.
“Roderick,” said the captain, addressing the youth, “bring me and the great chief, Black Bear, some supper at once.”
The youth turned and left the room, the walls closing after him.
“That’s our cook,” said the chief-robber.
Presently Roderick returned with a well-prepared lunch, which the robber-captain and his guest ate with a keen appetite.
After the meal had been dispatched, Dungarvon said: