Here was an adventure such as he had often imagined. But as yet he held no key to it, for no word was spoken while he sat with his impenetrable companions.
In an hour’s time David perceived through the window that the vehicle traversed the street of some town. Then it stopped in front of a closed and darkened house, and a postilion alighted to hammer impatiently upon the door. A latticed window above flew wide and a nightcapped head popped out.
“Who are ye that disturb honest folk at this time of night? My house is closed. ’T is too late for profitable travellers to be abroad. Cease knocking at my door, and be off.”
“Open!” spluttered the postilion, loudly; “open for Monseigneur the Marquis de Beaupertuys.”
“Ah!” cried the voice above. “Ten thousand pardons, my lord. I did not know—the hour is so late—at once shall the door be opened, and the house placed at my lord’s disposal.”
Inside was heard the clink of chain and bar, and the door was flung open. Shivering with chill and apprehension, the landlord of the Silver Flagon stood, half clad, candle in hand, upon the threshold.
David followed the marquis out of the carriage. “Assist the lady,” he was ordered. The poet obeyed. He felt her small hand tremble as he guided her descent. “Into the house,” was the next command.
The room was the long dining-hall of the tavern. A great oak table ran down its length. The huge gentleman seated himself in a chair at the nearer end. The lady
