Then he whistled again louder than before.
“You’re good with the bow and arrow, too, aren’t you?” I insisted.
“I could knock the eye out of you at a hundred paces,” he declared. “I’ll do it if you say the word.”
I laughed.
“I don’t want to be killed yet,” I said. Then I continued, “You’re quick on your feet. You’re a shifty wrestler. Are you just as clever tying messages to the haft of an arrow?”
It was a sly dig, for I had my suspicions and was curious to learn the truth. His answer was just as evasive as before.
“I told you I could do anything,” he replied like a flash, “whether it be tying messages or tying men.”
“And that’s that,” I said. “When a bird won’t sing, no one can force him. No doubt, you’ve heard that saying before, master scrivener?”
“What you hear and what’s the truth,” he came back, “are sometimes at great variance.”
At this the whistling grew louder and, I thought, more piercing than ever. The scrivener stuffed his hands into his shirt and strutted up and down the floor. On each occasion when I turned to him to speak, he threw back his head and let the notes out of him with such vehemence that I was almost deafened. At length he ceased from sheer exhaustion.