“Some one is knocking at the door,” cried the red woman, who was squatting by the fire.
In fact, a knock, followed by two louder raps, was heard above the ever-increasing din of the storm.
“It is he at last! It is Nychol!”
And seizing the lamp, their hostess hurried downstairs.
The two travellers had not had time to resume their conversation, when they heard a confused murmur of voices below, in the midst of which they caught these words, uttered in a voice which made Spiagudry start and shiver:
“Be quiet, woman; we shall stay. The thunderbolt enters without waiting for the door to be opened.”
Spiagudry pressed closer to Ordener.
“Master, master,” he quavered, “we are lost!”
The sound of footsteps was heard on the stairs, and two men in ecclesiastic dress entered the room, followed by the startled hostess.
One of these men was tall, and wore the black gown and close-clipped hair of a Lutheran minister; the other was shorter, and wore a hermit’s robe tied with a girdle of rope. The hood drawn over his face concealed all but his long black beard, and his hands were entirely hidden by his flowing sleeves.