Here I drew the dagger from my shirt and laid it on the table.
“This!” said I. And, with the word, looked him square in the eye in hopeful anticipation.
He pounced upon the weapon like a greedy child. He took it between his skinny fingers and turned it over and over. A crafty smile sharpened his features so that his face resembled a rat’s. With his thumb he examined the silver of the haft. He snapped the blade till it sang.
“That dagger,” I said as though he needed some urging to entirely understand, “belongs to the Abbot of Chalonnes.”
But his eyes were fastened like glue upon it, so that all the answer I got was a sort of mumbling.
“Ay, ay,” he said, “—the Abbot of Chalonnes.” Then he looked up suddenly. His jaws stopped shaking and his smile faded. “Where do you come from?” he demanded with a jerk.
I was getting weary of his dallying. I was sure that he knew more than he pretended. There was something at the back of his head that prompted him to doubt us, so with no more ado I burst forth, “Look here,” I began. “We are on our way to find the Black Prince. We have traveled a long distance and have been beset by enemies. We have been nearly killed half a dozen times. We’re in a strange country and need a word of advice. Maybe we ought to have a guide. Can’t you see that your friends are our friends?” I pointed to the dagger in his hands. “Isn’t that proof enough for you?”
At the mention of the dagger his hands clasped together with a quick convulsive motion and his jaws took to wagging again.
“Ay, ay,” he muttered, “it’s worth a hundred crowns, if it’s worth a groat.... It was fine of the Dwarf of Angers to send it to me.”
I jumped from my seat. As though he were suddenly attacked, the old man straightened up. A flash came to his eye and a sternness came upon him that was unexpected. I think if I had taken another step he would have showed fight.