CHAPTER XIII
THE SILVER-HAFTED DAGGER
In another hour the inn was deserted. The scrivener and I lay huddled together on the floor. One of De Marsac’s crew remained guard over us—an ugly fellow with a face scarred with small-pox and earrings in his ears. He must have come from somewhere in the south of France for his language was heavier than the French in our part of the country.
For a while he paced up and down the floor and glanced suspiciously at us at every turn. About midnight he began to yawn and stretch his arms over his head. Then he came and sat on a bench opposite us. The quiet of the place was like a balm for he fell into short naps. He arose and went to the other side of the table (where he could see us) and spread out his elbows. He yawned again and muttered something under his breath. Then little by little his head sank and before long it fell between his arms and he was snoring like the rumble of distant thunder.
As gently as I could I shoved the scrivener in the ribs.
“What’ll we do?” I whispered.
His answer was a gentle touch on the arm.
“Wait!” he said.
I was more than uncomfortable. The thongs were cutting into my wrists and ankles. At my shoulders where the muscles were stretched back a numbness crept over me. The hardness of the floor made me wish that I could stand up and walk a bit. But the worst of all was the dryness that was parching my tongue and mouth.
I heard a cock crow loud and long like the blast of a trumpet as if it would awaken the world. I looked at our captor. He never stirred. His mouth was open and he breathed in heavy sighs.