The Lord of Machavoine thrust the landlord out of the room. He, poor wretch! gave up his apartment with a very bad grace, and strove to argue the matter, but he got no answer. The shooting of the bolts, the creaking of the bed, were soon succeeded by a loud snoring, which deprived the defeated wretch of his last hope.
He was going down-stairs in anything but a good temper, when he heard some one moving cautiously at the bottom. The host of the “Crocodile” possessed the courage of those cowards who lie in wait to strike, but who succumb before a hidden danger or an imaginary one, and shrink from an open attack. Porc-en-Truie had kept the lamp—all was buried in complete darkness.
“Who is that?” asked Ali, in a disquieted tone.
“A friend,” answered a voice no less apprehensive.
The landlord drew from the folds of his tunic one of those formidable knives which are still the fashion in Spain, and, having opened it, softly descended the last few stairs.
“Who are you?—what do you want?”
“Don’t speak so loud, for goodness’ sake? Don’t you recognise my voice? I am one whom you supplied with radishes an hour since.”
“The knight with the black plume?”
“The same. Can I have a word with you in private?”
“We should find it difficult to discover a more secret and solitary spot than this. What is it you wish?”