Father Merlin’s figure straightened suddenly, and his hooked nose protruded like the beak of a bird from under the shadow of his hood.
“’Ssst!”
“What is it?”
“Listen.”
They remained motionless, rigid, so many stark black figures seen against the glow of the fire. The night was very still and windless, and the hollies seemed weighed down by the heavy, midnight silence. From somewhere came a rustling sound as of dead leaves blown along the forest’s floor. Father Merlin’s head moved slowly from side to side on its long and sinewy throat; the swashbuckler’s hand went to the hilt of his sword.
They heard a jay scream, and Blanche drew in a deep breath and laughed.
“The Polecat!”
“That was his cry.”
“Come down into the light, good friend, and welcome.”
A little man with a face like a wild cat’s appeared from nowhere, and threw himself down beside Big Blanche. His eyes were red and small and wonderfully restless, and his hair looked like a mass of little black snakes writhing all in a tangle. For the moment he said nothing, but reaching out with both hands, grabbed a bottle of mead with one and half a loaf with the other. The animal was thirsty and hungry, and they suffered him to have his will.