I was on the verge of raising my hand to point and call out, when amid the sharp howling of the dogs there came a rapping on the panels of the door. Like a flash André sprang forward. Without a single weapon in case he was attacked he jerked the door open. The light of the candles shone dimly into the haze. For all that, I was able to see the figure of a man standing on the stone step. He was booted and spurred and clad from neck to heels in the long black cloak of a traveler. He wore a broad brimmed hat with a feather in it. When he saw the anxious expression on my brother’s face he smiled and touched his forehead like a salute. Then he bowed with the gravity of a courtier. “May I come in out of the rain?” he asked. CHAPTER IV A TRICKSTER Of all the men I ever saw this stranger struck my fancy to the highest degree. He strode into the room with as much confidence and poise as though he were the actual master of the house and we the humblest of his servants. He looked neither to the right nor the left. Yet, as he passed us, without shifting his gaze, he seemed to sweep each of us out of the corner of his eye with a glance that measured us from head to heel. He stopped at the great oaken table and raised his hat with a sort of mincing delicacy. With a swish through the air he knocked the water from it and laid it carefully down. When he took off his cloak we saw that he carried a silver mounted sword and wore a doublet and breeches of the finest velvet ornamented about the edges with a fine lace. He curled his moustache with his thumb and forefinger. Then, with his hand over his heart and a bland smile on his face he turned and bowed with as much reverence as you would pay to a king. “I’ll never forget this,” he said, but there his voice dropped so that the rest of it sounded like hollow mockery,“—this unexpected hospitality.” André was the first to speak. “It’s a sour night,” said he carefully eyeing the stranger’s wet boots and dripping clothes, “for a man to be abroad.” The visitor gave a short laugh. “A little warmth,” he replied with a nod towards the hearth, “would add greatly to my comfort.” He began to chafe his hands the one in the other as though he were frozen to the marrow. “Will you please bestir yourself!” There was a ring of insolence in his tone. His words, though uttered smoothly, had a kind of sly meaning at the bottom that touched us to the quick. It was clear that he intended to nettle us. The old Lord of Gramont squared his shoulders. He let out a low quiet whistle and walked away. But André, who was quicker and more easily hurt, flushed the color of scarlet and knotted his fists. For a moment there was empty silence. Our visitor looked at each of us in turn with the corners of his lips curved in a taunting smile. He strutted past the hearth with his spurs clanking and glanced with a sneer about the room.