Strangely enough, these drunken predictions made Arnauld shudder, though superstition was not among his faults; and for a moment he thought of calling Martin back. But he was already knocking lustily at the postern.
"Poor devil, he is knocking at the door of his tomb!" thought Arnauld; "but, bah! this is childishness."
Meanwhile Martin, with no suspicion that his fellow-traveller was spying him from a distance, was shouting at the top of his voice,—
"Hallo there, watchman! Hallo, Cerberus! open the gate, blockhead! It is Bertrand, worthy Bertrand, who has sent me."
"Who goes there?" demanded the sentinel from within. "It's too late to come in. Who are you to be making such an uproar?"
"Who am I? You drunkard, I am Martin-Guerre, or Arnauld du Thill, if you please; or the friend of Bertrand, if you like that better. I am several people all at once, especially when I am in liquor. I am twenty rakes or so, who are going to give you a good sound drubbing if you don't open the gate for me at once."
"Arnauld du Thill! You are Arnauld du Thill?" asked the sentinel.
"Yes, I am Arnauld du Thill, twenty thousand cartloads of devils!" said Martin-Guerre, hammering away at the gate with feet as well as fists.
Then there was a noise behind the gate as of troops assembling at the call of the sentinel.
A man with a lantern opened the gate; and Arnauld du Thill, crouching behind the trees at a little distance, heard several voices crying out together in surprise,—