THE ADVENTURE OF THE INN.
Peter did not sleep well, for, notwithstanding all the barber’s
dressing, his hurt pained him much. Moreover, he was troubled by the
thought that Margaret must be sure that both he and her father were
dead, and of the sufferings of her sore heart. Whenever he dozed off he
seemed to see her awake and weeping, yes, and to hear her sobs and
murmurings of his name. When the first light of dawn crept through the
high-barred windows, he arose and called Castell, for they could not
dress without each other’s help. Then they waited until they heard the
sound of men talking and of beasts stamping in the courtyard without.
Guessing that this was the barber with the mules, they unlocked their
door and, finding the servant yawning in the passage, persuaded her to
let them out of the house.
The barber it was, sure enough, and with him a one-eyed youth mounted
on a pony, who, he said, would guide them to Granada. So they returned
with him into the house, where he looked at their wounds, shaking his
head over that of Peter, who, he said, ought not to travel so soon.
After this came more haggling as to the price of the mules, saddlery,
saddle-bags in which they packed their few spare clothes, hire of the
guide and his horse, and so forth, since, anxious as they were to get
away, they did not dare to seem to have money to spare.
At length everything was settled, and as their host, Father Henriques,
had not yet appeared, they determined to depart without bidding him
farewell, leaving some money in acknowledgment of his hospitality and
as a gift to his church. Whilst they were handing it over to the
servant, however, together with a fee for herself, the priest joined
them, unshaven, and holding his hand to his tonsured head whilst he
explained, what was not true, that he had been celebrating some early
Mass in the church; then asked whither they were going.
They told him, and pressed their gift upon him, which he accepted,
nothing loth, though its liberality seemed to make him more urgent to
delay their departure. They were not fit to travel; the roads were most
unsafe; they would be taken captive by the Moors, and thrown into a
dungeon with the Christian prisoners; no one could enter Granada
without a passport, he declared, and so forth, to all of which they
answered that they must go.
Now he appeared to be much disturbed, and said finally that they would
bring him into trouble with the Marquis of Morella—how or why, he would
not explain, though Peter guessed that it might be lest the marquis
should learn from them that this priest, his chaplain, had been
plundering the ship which he thought sunk, and possessing himself of
his jewels. At length, seeing that the man meant mischief and would
stop them in some fashion if they delayed, they bade him farewell
hastily, and, pushing past him, mounted the mules that stood outside
and rode away with their guide.
As they went they heard the priest, who now was in a rage, abusing the
barber who had sold them the beasts, and caught the words “Spies,”
“English señoras,” and “Commands of the Marquis,” so that they were
glad when at length they found themselves outside the town, where as
yet few were stirring, and riding unmolested on the road to Granada.
This road proved to be no good one, and very hilly; moreover, the mules
were even worse than they had thought, that which Peter rode stumbling
continually. Now they asked the youth, their guide, how long it would
take them to reach Granada; but all he answered them was:
“Quien sabe?” (Who knows?) “It depends upon the will of God.”
An hour later they asked him again, whereon he replied:
Perhaps to-night, perhaps to-morrow, perhaps never, as there were many
thieves about, and if they escaped the thieves they would probably be
captured by the Moors.
“I think there is one thief very near to us,” said Peter in English,
looking at this ill-favoured young man, then added in his broken
Spanish, “Friend, if we fall in with robbers or Moors, the first one
who dies will be yourself,” and he tapped the hilt of his sword.
The lad uttered a Spanish curse, and turned the head of his pony round
as though he would ride back to Motril, then changed his mind and
pushed on a long way in front of them, nor could they come near him
again for hours. So hard was the road and so feeble were the mules
that, notwithstanding a midday halt to rest them, it was nightfall
before they reached the top of the Sierra, and in the last sunset glow,
separated from them by the rich vega or plain, saw the minarets and
palaces of Granada. Now they wished to push on, but their guide swore
that it was impossible, as in the dark they would fall over precipices
while descending to the plain. There was a venta or inn near by, he
said, where they could sleep, starting again at dawn.
When Castell said that they did not wish to go to an inn, he answered
that they must, since they had eaten what food they had, and here on
the road there was no fodder for the beasts. So, reluctantly enough,
they consented, knowing that unless they were fed the mules would never
carry them to Granada, whereon the guide, pointing out the house to
them, a lonely place in a valley about a hundred yards from the road,
said that he would go on to make arrangements, and galloped off.
As they approached this hostelry, which was surrounded by a rough wall
for purposes of defence, they saw the one-eyed youth engaged in earnest
conversation with a fat, ill-favoured man who had a great knife stuck
in his girdle. Advancing to them, bowing, this man said that he was the
host, and, in reply to their request for food and a room, told them
that they could have both.
They rode into the courtyard, whereon the inn-keeper locked the door in
the wall behind them, explaining that it was to keep out robbers, and
adding that they were fortunate to be where they could sleep quite
safely. Then a Moor came and led away their mule to the stable, and
they accompanied the landlord into the sitting-room, a long, low
apartment furnished with tables and benches, on which sat several
rough-looking fellows, drinking wine. Here the host suddenly demanded
payment in advance, saying that he did not trust strangers. Peter would
have argued with him; but Castell, thinking it best to comply,
unbuttoned his garments to get at his money, for he had no loose coin
in his pocket, having paid away the last at Motril.
His right hand being still helpless, this he did with his left, and so
awkwardly that the small doubloon he took hold of slipped from his
fingers and fell on to the floor. Forgetting that he had not
re-fastened the belt, he bent down to pick it up, whereon a number of
gold pieces of various sorts, perhaps twenty of them, fell out and
rolled hither and thither on the ground. Peter, watching, saw the
landlord and the other men in the room exchange a quick and significant
glance. They rose, however, and assisted to find the money, which the
host returned to Castell, remarking with an unpleasant smile, that if
he had known that his guests were so rich he would have charged them
more for their accommodation.
“Of your good heart I pray you not,” answered Castell, “for that is all
our worldly goods,” and even as he spoke another gold piece, this time
a large doubloon, which had remained in his clothing, slipped to the
floor.
“Of course, Señor,” the host replied as he picked this up also and
handed it back politely, “but shake yourself, there may still be a coin
or two in your doublet.” Castell did so, whereon the gold in his belt,
loosened by what had fallen out, rattled audibly, and the audience
smiled again, while the host congratulated him on the fact that he was
in an honest house, and not wandering on the mountains, which were the
home of so many bad men.
Having pocketed his money with the best grace he could, and buckled his
belt beneath his robe, Castell and Peter sat down at a table a little
apart, and asked if they could have some supper. The host assented, and
called to the Moorish servant to bring food, then sat down also, and
began to put questions to them, of a sort which showed that their guide
had already told all their story.
“How did you learn of our shipwreck?” asked Castell by way of answer.
“How? Why, from the people of the marquis, who stopped here to drink a
cup of wine when he passed to Granada yesterday with his company and
two señoras. He said that the San Antonio had sunk, but told us nothing
of your being left aboard of her.”
“Then forgive us, friend, if we, whose business is of no interest to
you, copy his discretion, as we are weary and would rest.”
“Certainly, Señors—certainly,” replied the man; “I go to hasten your
supper, and to fetch you a flask of the wine of Granada worthy of your
degree,” and he left them.
A while later their food came—good meat enough of its sort—and with it
the wine in an earthenware jug, which, as he filled their horn mugs,
the host said he had poured out of the flask himself that the crust of
it might not slip. Castell thanked him, and asked him to drink a cup to
their good journey; but he declined, answering that it was a fast day
with him, on which he was sworn to touch only water. Now Peter, who had
said nothing all this time, but noted much, just touched the wine with
his lips, and smacked them as though in approbation while he whispered
in English to Castell:
“Drink it not; it is drugged!”
“What says your son?” asked the host.
“He says that it is delicious, but suddenly he has remembered what I
too forgot, that the doctor at Motril forbade us to touch wine for fear
lest we should worsen the hurts that we had in the shipwreck. Well, let
it not be wasted. Give it to your friends. We must be content with
thinner stuff.” And taking up a jug of water that stood upon the table,
he filled an empty cup with it and drank, then passed it to Peter,
while the host looked at them sourly.
Then, as though by an afterthought, Castell rose and politely presented
the jug of wine and the two filled mugs to the men who were sitting at
a table close by, saying that it was a pity that they should not have
the benefit of such fine liquor. One of these fellows, as it chanced,
was their own guide, who had come in from tending the mules. They took
the mugs readily enough, and two of them tossed off their contents,
whereon, with a smothered oath, the landlord snatched away the jug and
vanished with it.
Castell and Peter went on with their meal, for they saw their
neighbours eating of the same dish, as did the landlord also, who had
returned, and, it seemed to Peter, was watching the two men who had
drunk the wine with an anxious eye. Presently one of these rose from
the table and, going to a bench on the other side of the room, flung
himself down upon it and became quite silent, while their one-eyed
guide stretched out his arms and fell face forward so that his head
rested on an empty plate, where he remained apparently insensible. The
host sprang up and stood irresolute, and Castell, rising, said that
evidently the poor lad was sleepy after his long ride, and as they were
the same, would he be so courteous as to show them to their room?
He assented readily, indeed it was clear that he wished to be rid of
them, for the other men were staring at the guide and their companion,
and muttering amongst themselves.
“This way, Señors,” he said, and led them to the end of the place where
a broad step-ladder stood. Going up it, a lamp in his hand, he opened a
trap-door and called to them to follow him, which Castell did. Peter,
however, first turned and said good-night to the company who were
watching them; at the same moment, as though by accident or
thoughtlessly, half drawing his sword from its scabbard. Then he too
went up the ladder, and found himself with the others in an attic.
It was a bare place, the only furniture in it being two chairs and two
rough wooden bedsteads without heads to them, mere trestles indeed,
that stood about three feet apart against a boarded partition which
appeared to divide this room from some other attic beyond. Also, there
was a hole in the wall immediately beneath the eaves of the house that
served the purpose of a window, over which a sack was nailed. “We are
poor folk,” said the landlord as they glanced round this comfortless
garret, “but many great people have slept well here, as doubtless you
will also,” and he turned to descend the ladder.
“It will serve,” answered Castell; “but, friend, tell your men to leave
the stable open, as we start at dawn, and be so good as to give me that
lamp.”
“I cannot spare the lamp,” he grunted sulkily, with his foot already on
the first step.
Peter strode to him and grasped his arm with one hand, while with the
other he seized the lamp. The man cursed, and began to fumble at his
belt, as though for a knife, whereon Peter, putting out his strength,
twisted his arm so fiercely that in his pain he loosed the lamp, which
remained in Peter’s hand. The inn-keeper made a grab at it, missed his
footing and rolled down the ladder, falling heavily on the floor below.
Watching from above, to their relief they saw him pick himself up, and
heard him begin to revile them, shaking his fist and vowing vengeance.
Then Peter shut down the trap-door. It was ill fitted, so that the edge
of it stood up above the flooring, also the bolt that fastened it had
been removed, although the staples in which it used to work remained.
Peter looked round for some stick or piece of wood to pass through
these staples, but could find nothing. Then he bethought him of a short
length of cord that he had in his pocket, which served to tie one of
the saddle-bags in its place on his mule. This he fastened from one
staple to the other, so that the trap-door could not be lifted more
than an inch or two.
Reflecting that this might be done, and the cord cut with a knife
passed through the opening, he took one of the chairs and stood it so
that two of its legs rested on the edge of the trap-door and the other
two upon the boarding of the floor. Then he said to Castell:
“We are snared birds; but they must get into the cage before they wring
our necks. That wine was poisoned, and, if they can, they will murder
us for our money—or because they have been told to do so by the guide.
We had best keep awake to-night.”
“I think so,” answered Castell anxiously. “Listen, they are talking
down below.”
Talking they were, as though they debated something, but after a while
the sound of voices died away. When all was silent they hunted round
the attic, but could find nothing that was unusual to such places.
Peter looked at the window-hole, and, as it was large enough for a man
to pass through, tried to drag one of the beds beneath it, thinking
that if any such attempt were made, he who lay thereon would have the
thief at his mercy, only to find, however, that these were screwed to
the floor and immovable. As there was nothing more that they could do,
they went and sat upon these beds, their bare swords in their hands,
and waited a long while, but nothing happened.
At length the lamp, which had been flickering feebly for some time,
went out, lacking oil, and except for the light which crept through the
window-place, for now they had torn away the sacking that hung over it,
they were in darkness.
A little while later they heard the sound of a horse’s hoofs, and the
door of the house open and shut, after which there was more talking
below, and mingling with it a new voice which Peter seemed to remember.
“I have it,” he whispered to Castell. “Here is our late host, Father
Henriques, come to see how his guests are faring.”
Another half-hour and the waning moon rose, throwing a beam of light
into their chamber; also they heard horse’s hoofs again. Going to the
window, Peter looked out of it and saw the horse, a fine beast, being
held by the landlord, then a man came and mounted it and, at some
remark of his, turned his face upwards towards their window. It was
that of Father Henriques.
The two whispered together for a while till the priest blessed the
landlord in Latin words and rode away, and again they heard the door of
the house close.
“He is off to Granada, to warn Morella his master of our coming,” said
Castell, as they reseated themselves upon the beds.
“To warn Morella that we shall never come, perhaps; but we will beat
him yet,” replied Peter.
The night wore on, and Castell, who was very weary, sank back upon the
bolster and began to doze, when suddenly the chair that was set upon
the trap-door fell over with a great clatter, and he sprang up, asking
what that noise might be.
“Only a rat,” answered Peter, who saw no good in telling him the
truth—namely, that thieves or murderers had tried to open the
trap-door.
Then he crept down the room, felt the cord, to find that it was still
uncut, and replaced the chair where it had been. This done, Peter came
back to the bed and threw himself down upon it as though he would
slumber, though never was he more wide awake. The weariness of Castell
had overcome him again, however, for he snored at his side.
For a long while nothing further happened, although once the ray of
moonlight was cut off, and for an instant Peter thought that he saw a
face at the window. If so, it vanished and returned no more. Now from
behind their heads came faint sounds, like those of stifled breathing,
like those of naked feet; then a slight creaking and scratching in the
wall—a mouse’s tooth might have caused it—and suddenly, right in that
ray of moonlight, a cruel-looking knife and a naked arm projected
through the panelling.
[Illustration: ]
A cruel-looking knife and a naked arm projected through the panelling
The knife flickered for a second over the breast of the sleeping
Castell as though it were a living thing that chose the spot where it
would strike. One second—only one—for the next Peter had drawn himself
up, and with a sweep of the sword which lay unscabbarded at his side,
had shorn that arm off above the elbow, just where it projected from
the panelling.
“What was that?” asked Castell again, as something fell upon him.
“A snake,” answered Peter, “a poisonous snake. Wake up now, and look.”
Castell obeyed, staring in silence at the horrible arm which still
clasped the great knife, while from beyond the panelling there came a
stifled groan, then a sound as of a heavy body stumbling away.
“Come,” said Peter, “let us be going, unless we would stop here for
ever. That fellow will soon be back to seek his arm.”
“Going! How?” asked Castell.
“There seems to be but one road, and that a rough one, through the
window and over the wall,” answered Peter. “Ah! there they come; I
thought so.” And as he spoke they heard the sound of men scrambling up
the ladder.
They ran to the window-place and looked out, but there seemed to be no
one below, and it was not more than twelve feet from the ground. Peter
helped Castell through it, then, holding his sound arm with both his
own, lowered him as far as he could, and let go. He dropped on to his
feet, fell to the ground, then rose again, unhurt. Peter was about to
follow him when he heard the chair tumble over again, and, looking
round, saw the trap-door open, to fall back with a crash. They had cut
the cord!
The figure of a man holding a knife appeared in the faint light,
followed by the head of another man. Now it was too late for him to get
through the window-place safely; if he attempted it he would be stabbed
in the back. So, grasping his sword with both hands, Peter leapt at
that man, aiming a great stroke at his shadowy mass. It fell upon him
somewhere, for down he went and lay quite still. By now the second man
had his knee upon the edge of flooring. Peter thrust him through, and
he sank backwards on to the heads of others who were following him,
sweeping the ladder with his weight, so that all of them tumbled in a
heap at its foot, save one who hung to the edge of the trap frame by
his hands. Peter slammed its door to, crushing them so that he loosed
his grip, with a howl. Then, as he had nothing else, he dragged the
body of the dead man on to it and left him there.
Next he rushed to the window, sheathing his sword as he ran, scrambled
through it, and, hanging by his arms, let himself drop, coming to the
ground safely, for he was very agile, and in the excitement of the fray
forgot the hurt to his head and shoulder.
“Where now?” asked Castell, as he stood by him panting.
“To the stable for the mules. No, it is useless; we have no time to
saddle them, and the outer gate is locked. The wall—the wall—we must
climb it! They will be after us in a minute.”
They ran thither and found that, though ten feet high, fortunately this
wall was built of rough stone, which gave an easy foothold. Peter
scrambled up first, then, lying across its top, stretched down his hand
to Castell, and with difficulty—for the man was heavy and
crippled—dragged him to his side. Just then they heard a voice from
their garret shout:
“The English devils have gone! Get to the door and cut them off.”
“Come on,” said Peter. So together they climbed, or rather fell, down
the wall on to a mass of prickly-pear bush, which broke the shock but
tore them so sorely in a score of places that they could have shrieked
with the pain. Somehow they freed themselves, and, bleeding all over,
broke from that accursed bush, struggling up the bank of the ditch in
which it grew, ran for the road, and along it towards Granada.
Before they had gone a hundred yards they heard shoutings, and guessed
that they were being followed. Just here the road crossed a ravine full
of boulders and rough scrubby growth, whereas beyond it was bare and
open. Peter seized Castell and dragged him up this ravine till they
came to a place where, behind a great stone, there was a kind of hole,
filled with bushes and tall, dead grass, into which they plunged and
hid themselves.
“Draw your sword,” he said to Castell. “If they find us, we will die as
well as we can.”
He obeyed, holding it in his left hand.
They heard the robbers run along the road; then, seeing that they had
missed their victims, these returned again, five or six of them, and
fell to searching the ravine. But the light was very bad, for here the
rays of the moon did not penetrate, and they could find nothing.
Presently two of them halted within five paces of them and began to
talk, saying that the swine must still be hidden in the yard, or
perhaps had doubled back for Motril.
“I don’t know where they are hidden,” answered the other man; “but this
is a poor business. Fat Pedro’s arm is cut clean off, and I expect he
will bleed to death, while two of the other fellows are dead or dying,
for that long-legged Englishman hits hard, to say nothing of those who
drank the drugged wine, and look as though they would never wake. Yes,
a poor business to get a few doubloons and please a priest, but oh! if
I had the hogs here I——” And he hissed out a horrible threat.
“Meanwhile we had best lie up at the mouth of this place in case they
should still be hidden here.”
Peter heard him and listened. All the other men had gone, running back
along the road. His blood was up, and the thorn pricks stung him
sorely. Saying no word, out of his lair he came with that terrible
sword of his aloft.
The men caught sight of him, and gave a gasp of fear. It was the last
sound that one of them ever made. Then the other turned and ran like a
hare. This was he who had uttered the threat.
“Stop!” whispered Peter, as he overtook him—“stop, and do what you
promised.”
The brute turned, and asked for mercy, but got none.
“It was needful,” said Peter to Castell presently; “you heard—they were
going to wait for us.”
“I do not think that they will try to murder any more Englishmen at
that inn,” panted Castell, as he ran along beside him.