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?