“A friend! A friend! Here, Majolais!”
The next moment the imp was at my side, and, thrusting a packet into my hand, was off again like a flash.
“Stay! Stay!” called out both Cipierre and Marcilly, but the dwarf only laughed—that cackling, tongueless laugh of his—and sprang behind the saddle of the white horse, while its rider, turning its head on the instant, went off at a gallop.
“Come back!” shouted Cipierre, and an answer came to us through the moonlight:
“Bon coq, Coqueville!” And then we heard him going ding-dong down the deserted streets.
CHAPTER XVII
“LE PETIT HOMME TANT JOLI”
So taken aback were we that for a breath we did not realize who it was. We heard the reckless cry riding back to us through the shivering winter moonlight, we heard the excited “hou! hou!” of the alarmed watch, and the clatter of iron-shod hoofs, that stilled suddenly as the rider turned into a side street that shut out all sound, and then, only then, did the understanding of the thing come to us, and Marcilly almost shouted out:
“By all the saints! ’Tis Coqueville! What blind folly!” and, with an oath, he struck his gloved hand on the flap of his holster.
“Perhaps this explains things,” and I held up at arm’s height the letter Majolais had given to me, while Cipierre cut in:
“Come, then, let us read it. We have no time to waste.”