When Martin Valliant went to his post that night outside the door of Mellis’s room he found a drunken man trying to open her door. It was barred on the inside, but the fellow was fumbling with the latch, sottishly enraged and babbling oaths. Martin took him by the shoulder, sent him rolling down the stairs, and followed to see whether he betrayed any desire to return. The man went down the newel stairway with absurd contortions, like a beetle rolling over and over and kicking as he rolled. He gathered himself up at the bottom, clasped his head between his hands, and disappeared unsteadily through the doorway.
Martin returned to the landing outside Mellis’s room, and stood listening.
“Mellis!”
Her voice answered him from the other side of the door.
“I am here. What has happened?”
“Nothing. A clown had lost his way, and I showed it to him with some briskness. These knights and gentlemen keep but poor order among their men.”
He heard her sigh.
“Martin!”
“Dear lady!”
“I have a feeling of strange restlessness to-night. I know not what ails me.”