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.
A door to my left creaked. The rays of the yellow lanthorn were only a
little better than the gloom. I wanted to turn but the scrivener pressed
his knee against my thigh. Out of the corner of my eye I could see the
door open wider and wider but so slowly that I imagined an hour was
passing.
Then I saw a face. It was the landlord. I had not noticed him much
during the meal but now his nose seemed sharper than ever and the
leanness of his face was almost of the keenness of a knife. He had his
eyes drawn together and his teeth clenched showing white.
As he came towards us the tassel of his nightcap bobbed about in a
little circle and his slippers gave to his steps the softness of a
cat’s. His long loose nightgown made him look like a ghost. But he was a
kindly ghost at that for he carried a noggin of water in his hand.
Without a word he stooped over the scrivener and moistened his lips.
Then he gave me a swallow. Always with one eye on the sleeping guard he
made a sign towards the door.
“Guarded!” he whispered, “——from the outside!”
The scrivener’s eyes almost burnt a hole in him so intensely did he look
at him.
“Have you no sense?” he demanded in a tone that was low but hard.
The landlord raised his brows slightly as though he did not understand.
“I cannot die with a bad conscience,” muttered the scrivener. “Nor will
I die with a murder on my hands.” He stopped a breath and glared even
harder than before. “The lad here is a dangerous character. He’ll not
give up till the last. He be like to kill some one in the struggle.” He
halted but kept his eyes steadily on the landlord as though he would
speak with them.
The guard gave a loud sigh. He breathed with a deep moan. His lips
quivered like a horse snorting. He tried to raise his head but it fell
again like a dead weight across his arms.
Not one of us stirred. The cock crowed again. The sound of it sent my
nerves quivering. Then the scrivener spoke again in a voice that was
quiet but determined.
“I want you to search the lad there,” he said. “He has a knife in his
jacket that can do much harm—or good. Take it away from him. If you have
a grain of sense you will understand.”
I felt myself jump in my bonds. On the impulse I wanted to resist. I
wanted to throw myself on the scrivener and denounce him for a traitor
and a coward. My second thoughts were calmer. I was as good as done for
as I was. Was there a hidden understanding between him and the landlord
that had a meaning of its own?
Before I could think further the landlord had his hand under my doublet.
The dagger which I was to carry to the Abbot of Chalonnes was torn from
me with no further ado. For one second he held it under the rays of the
lanthorn. The light, dull as it was, shone like a clear stream along the
silver haft. In spite of himself he gave a start and looked searchingly
from the one of us to the other. Then without a word he shuffled slowly
away and disappeared behind the door.
I nudged the scrivener in the ribs. I wanted some kind of explanation to
be sure. But all I got was a yawn and a reply that came like a rebuke.
“Go to sleep!”
The scrivener curled up on his side as well as he could. Whether he was
feigning or not I cannot tell but before a quarter of an hour had passed
he was snoring as loudly as the guard. I was wide awake, alert, for I
expected the landlord to return. I felt that something would happen. A
half hour passed. A dullness came into my eyes. The thoughts of what had
occurred during the day revolved themselves in my mind. A dread of the
morning took hold of me, for I realized that the chances were that I was
to die. Then a weariness seized me. My head drooped to one side. All
kinds of fanciful images started chasing one another in my brain. After
that, sheer exhaustion laid a hand on me and with my nose against the
scrivener’s shoulder I, too, fell into a slumber.
It was a fitful sleep at best. The dreams that tumbled around in my mind
must have made me cry out. I awoke trembling with the sound of my voice
still echoing in the air. I started up. To my amazement my bonds no
longer held me. I swung my arms to make sure that I was not dreaming and
even pinched my leg.
Then I looked about. The lanthorn was still there, lit, burning as it
had during the entire night. The guard was as quiet as a mouse with his
head down between his arms. I turned my head. No sign of the scrivener
could I see. Then it flashed upon me that something had happened while I
slumbered and I rose startled to my feet.
It was as if I had been suddenly dropped from the clouds. I wanted to
run for it as fast as I could to the door and make my escape while it
was possible. With long stealthy steps I made to pass the guard. My eyes
were fastened on him with dread and fear. If he should awake I would be
even worse off than before.
Then I stopped dead in my tracks. A long sobbing breath came to my
throat. The dagger which the landlord had taken from my doublet earlier
in the night lay straight before me on the table. It was covered with
fresh blood the whole length of the blade. I looked closer. I was about
to touch the guard’s shoulder when I recoiled in terror. The back of his
coat was torn and in the rent a stream of red oozed slowly down!
For a moment I stood dazed. I rubbed my eyes to make sure that I was
actually awake. The stillness of the inn reminded me of the emptiness of
a tomb. A fear of the awfulness of it all sent the shivers down my legs
and I looked around me for some sign of a living creature who might be
able to explain.
Then the thought of what might happen if I lingered there the space of
one second came to me. De Marsac’s command that I should hang in the
morning knocked the dullness out of me. I took the dagger and wiped the
blade against the guard’s coat. He did not stir but seemed like a block
of solid wood.
I remembered the landlord’s warning that the front of the inn was
guarded so I crept silently towards the back. I opened the door through
which he had entered when he gave us the drink of water. It creaked a
little and cast a scare over me. I passed through the kitchen where the
pots and pans hung in order from pins, all of them bright and shining. I
put my hand on the latch of the back door. To my surprise it opened
almost at the touch. In the next moment I was outside in the open.
It was still dark but a haze covered the sky to the east. By that I knew
it would soon be dawn. I ran across the open space between the inn and
the woods. When I was hidden among the trees I gave a great sigh of
relief.
But I did not stop. I ran on and on. I did not know where I was going
but followed a kind of forest path that was like a thread rather than a
road, for in no place was the grass worn entirely away. The light to the
east grew brighter and brighter. Then the birds began to chatter and
whistle in the branches over my head. A hare crossed in front of me and
with the fear I was in it almost took my breath away.
There was little that I noticed. It was only weariness that slackened my
pace. My running fell away to a shambling nervous walk. I was on the
high ground overlooking a valley that lay off to my left. I knew that
within an hour my enemies would be in full hue and cry after me so I
decided to keep far away from the highway.
I came to a tiny brook that rippled out from between some broken rocks.
I stooped and drank one deep draught after another. I was about to go on
when I spied a man sitting on a boulder. It was the scrivener smiling as
calmly as you please. He had a loaf of bread under his arm and was
stuffing a lump into his mouth. On the grass next to him I noticed a
fairly large lump of fresh cheese.
As though we were at peace with all the world he grinned as gleefully as
a child.
“Good morning, Henri,” he said. “Have you had your breakfast?”