"He's escaped," said the barber, reëntering the lower room and angrily throwing his sword on the table. These words seemed to break the charm which held Rolande in his scabbard; and Chaudoreille, drawing his sword suddenly, and making it flash in the air, ran precipitately into the shop, crying,—
"And now, master singers, I'll let you see something fierce."
"Don't I tell you there's no one there," repeated Touquet, while Chaudoreille appeared to wish to draw the bolts of the door. "I made too much noise; the rascal heard me and ran off."
"Are you quite certain there's nobody there?" said Chaudoreille, still brandishing his sword.
"Yes, quite sure."
"I have a great inclination to go into the street and satisfy myself as to that."
"Do as you please about it; you are your own master."
"No; on reflection, I believe that would be a blunder; they may perhaps come back; it will be better to let them approach without fear; then we can fell suddenly upon them, and give them no quarter."
So saying, the chevalier put Rolande into the scabbard and returned to the lower room, where he seated himself before the fire and again filled his cup with wine, which he swallowed at one draught, to cool—so he said—his anger.
The barber strode up and down; he was strongly agitated, and appeared to have forgotten the presence of Chaudoreille, as he murmured at intervals in a gloomy voice,—