I said not a word but glanced at Charles.
“Who are you?” he gasped, “—friend or enemy?”
“I am the Dwarf of Angers,” was the reply. He hesitated. The smile broadened into a wicked grin. “If I were your enemy,” he went on, “you would have been dead long before this.”
“You say you have been expecting us——,” I began, but he broke in and interrupted me.
“You are a friend of the Abbot of Chalonnes,” he said in the most matter of fact way. “He heard that you were threatened with danger. I came to see you through.”
I drew back in surprise. My first impulse was to tell him that I had never seen the Abbot of Chalonnes in my life. On second thought, I decided to let him believe as he would.
“We are surrounded by at least a score of men,” I said with some caution. “They are French—followers of a man by the name of De Marsac. The three of us can hardly make a stand against them. They are too many.”
A little cackle of laughter broke from him. He went to the corner of the room where a basket stood. He took from it an apple that was as large as your fist. He stretched out his hand and laid the apple between the middle finger and the forefinger. He extended his arm to full length and slowly drew his fingers together. There came a crushing sound. Then with as much force as if it were struck by a hammer the apple flew apart. One half of it shot over against the wall and the other dropped a little distance from his feet.
My mouth opened in amazement. Such a feat of strength I never believed possible.
“There has never lived a man with hands and arms like these,” he said. “Nature gave me a misshapen body. But she made up for it in another way.” He jumped back and turned to the wall. With a leap as quick as lightning he came towards us, turning one somersault after the other. Not once did his hands touch the floor nor, when he came to a halt, did he draw a single breath that gave a sign of fatigue.