Æsop's grin deepened. "Very much. Before nightfall you will be in
prison."
Lagardere seemed to deny him. "I think not. You carry a sword and can
use it. You shall fight for your life, like your fellow-assassins."
Æsop looked about him. "I have but to raise my voice. There must be
people within call even in this sleepy neighborhood."
Lagardere still smiled, and the smile was still provocative. "But if you
raise your voice I shall be reluctantly compelled to stab you where you
stand. Ah, coward, can you only fight in the dark when you are nine to
one?"
Æsop gave his hilt a hitch. "You will serve my master's turn as well dead
as alive. I wear the best sword in the world, and it longs for your
life."
Lagardere pointed to the tranquil little Inn. "Behind yonder Inn there is
a garden. To-day, when all the world is at the fair, that garden is as
lonely as a cemetery. At the foot of the garden runs the river, a ready
grave for the one who falls. There we can fight in quiet to our heart's
content."
Æsop glared at Lagardere with a look of triumphant hatred. "I mean to
kill you, Lagardere!" he said, and the tone of his voice was surety of
his intention and his belief in his power to carry it out.
Lagardere only laughed as lightly as before. "I mean to kill you, Master
Æsop. I have waited a long time for the pleasure of seeing you again."
Then the pair passed into the quiet Inn and out of the quiet Inn into the
quiet Inn's quiet garden, and down the quiet garden to a quiet space hard
by the quiet river.