“Very well, then; I agree,” replied the woman.
Quentin took a mattress, spread it upon the floor, and threw himself upon it.
“Woe unto you, Señor,” said the woman in a terrible voice, “if you dare to take any undue liberties.”
Quentin, who was tired, began in a very few minutes to snore like a water-carrier. The woman sat up in bed and scrutinized him closely.
“Oh! What an unpoetic person!” she murmured.
When Quentin awoke and found himself in the room, where a ray of light poured in through a high, closed window, he got up to open it. The poetic woman at that moment was snoring, with a pistol clasped in her fingers.
Quentin opened the window, and as he did so, he discovered that a cord was attached to the window lock. He jerked it, found that it was heavy, and pulled it toward him until a covered basket appeared.
“Here’s breakfast,” announced Quentin.
And sure enough; inside was a roast chicken, bread, a bottle of wine, and rolled in the napkin, a paper upon which was written in huge letters:
“Do not come out; they are still hanging around the street.”