Holyday kept silence. Then he heard a bed creak as under the movements of a heavy body. The woman was coming out to see what had made the noise. And he, clad only in the briefest of shirts! A double terror shook him; he sprang across the room and blew out the candle. The door opened, and a heavy, unshod tread sounded upon the floor.
"Ecod, the light's out!" said the woman. "And the door open." She found her way in the dark to the door which Holyday had neglected to close upon entering. "'Twas the wind, I wis. Fool Jack, to leave the door ill-fastened! Well, he is served right, for the wind hath blown out his candle. I must make another light, forsooth."
Holyday, standing perfectly still near the window, heard the woman grumbling about the task of striking a light. He felt himself blushing terribly in the dark; he was surely undone. But with a timely inspiration, and glad for once that his feet were bare, he went tiptoe back to where he had sat, stepped over the bench, and slipped behind the deer-skin, flattening himself as much as possible against the wall as he stood.
The woman got the candle aflame, looked around the room, replaced the light in the window, and went back to the other chamber. Hearing the bed creak again as it received her weight, Holyday came out from his hiding-place. What should he do in order to profit for the rest of the night by the comforts of this abode without discovery? He knew who this woman was, and who Jack, her husband, was. He had fallen foul of this keeper before he had left for London, and the keeper was a fellow who would take revenge when occasion offered. Pondering on the situation, Holyday was almost of a mind to face the stormy night again rather than risk capture by the man in such circumstances. Before he could make up his mind, he heard a gruff voice outside ordering a dog to its kennel. It was Jack's voice. Master Holyday fled panic-stricken up the narrow stairs, through the open trap-door.
He was in a place of darkness. He forgot that the height of the cottage—which served but to house an under-keeper and his wife, and was not the principal lodge pertaining to this chase—forbade that the upper story should be more than a mere loft; but of this he was speedily reminded by a bump of his head against a rafter. The loft was warm and probably unoccupied, for Jack rarely had a guest. The rain upon the roof made a din in Holyday's ears. He felt his way to one end of the place, and lay down, near a small window. He heard Jack entering below, swearing at the storm, fastening the door, and finally joining his spouse in the sleeping-chamber. There was some conversation in low tones, and then the house was still.
Holyday's foot struck against the end of a wooden chest. Crawling to it, he opened the top, and found what he had hoped for,—soft garments in which to lie. He tore off his wet shirt, rolled himself up in what seemed to be a woman's gown,—Jack's wife required dresses of ample capacity,—and sank away in sweetest comfort to oblivion.
He woke from a dream of delicious warmth and wondrous light, and found the sunshine in his face. His window was toward the south. The sun had passed the line of noon. Holyday gathered himself up; surveyed the garment of russet wool he had slept in; and finally dressed himself in it in proper manner. It hung loose upon him, but it covered his nakedness.
A creak of the stairway drew his eyes toward the trap. There rose into view the frowsy head and fat face of Jack's wife.
"Ecod, I knew I heard somebody!" she cried, staring at Holyday fiercely. "And dressed in my clothes, too! Oh, thou thief, I'll tear thy skin from thee!"