It was close on to midnight when we left the Dwarf and his cave. We headed for the south, at first over rocks and stones and through the depths of the woods; then we came upon a white ribbon of a road, which we followed till the dawn overtook us.
We reached the inn at the cross-roads in less than an hour—an old stone house covered with moss and windows grilled and barred. There was no one about, so with a bit of a stick which I had found, I knocked on the panels of the heavy oaken door. We stood and waited. There came to our ears not a sound, not even the barking of a dog or the rattle of pots and pans.
I knocked again, this time more violently than before. The echo died away across the empty fields. Then I heard a window creak over our heads and a nightcap with a tassle to it appeared.
“What do you want?” said a voice.
“Is this an inn?” I returned. “Is this the inn of the Cross-roads?”
The voice squeaked.
“Cross-roads?” it said as though it did not quite understand. “Who are you that come knocking at my door?”
“We’re honest travelers,” called Charles. “We want a bite to eat and then we’ll be on our way.”
At this my rashness showed itself.
“We’re friends of the Abbot of Chalonnes!” I added.