“I found that in the shirt of one of the men I shot down,” he explained. “Take it with you. Guard it better than you have already done. In another hour it will be safe for you to leave. You can keep to the road that leads towards the south. If there is any trouble, show it to the keeper of the inn that stands at the cross-roads. He is a friend of mine.” CHAPTER XXII TRAPPED! It was close on to midnight when we left the Dwarf and his cave. We headed for the south, at first over rocks and stones and through the depths of the woods; then we came upon a white ribbon of a road, which we followed till the dawn overtook us. We reached the inn at the cross-roads in less than an hour—an old stone house covered with moss and windows grilled and barred. There was no one about, so with a bit of a stick which I had found, I knocked on the panels of the heavy oaken door. We stood and waited. There came to our ears not a sound, not even the barking of a dog or the rattle of pots and pans. I knocked again, this time more violently than before. The echo died away across the empty fields. Then I heard a window creak over our heads and a nightcap with a tassle to it appeared. “What do you want?” said a voice. “Is this an inn?” I returned. “Is this the inn of the Cross-roads?” The voice squeaked. “Cross-roads?” it said as though it did not quite understand. “Who are you that come knocking at my door?” “We’re honest travelers,” called Charles. “We want a bite to eat and then we’ll be on our way.” At this my rashness showed itself. “We’re friends of the Abbot of Chalonnes!” I added. I thought thus to bring the matter to a head. If there was any suspicion in the man, the mention of the Abbot’s name ought to be enough to soften his fears. For a moment there was no answer. Then his voice began again, this time in a low coaxing tone. “—the Abbot of Chalonnes,” he repeated slowly as though he was turning the name over in his mind. “These are dangerous times, my son. Have you, by any chance, a proof that you are a friend of the Abbot of Chalonnes?” I drew the dagger from my shirt and held it high in my hand. “Here!” I called. “Can you see this?” The voice creaked like a rusty hinge. “And what is that?” it asked. “It’s a token,” I replied with some show of anger, for the caution of the man prodded me like a knife. “We were sent here. We were told that you would recognize this. It belongs to the Abbot of Chalonnes.” The man coughed to clear his throat. His voice changed to a hasty wheeze. A cracked smile curled around his mouth. “I was only toying with you, my lad,” he said. “Of course I recognize it. Of course it belongs to the Abbot of Chalonnes. Bide a bit. Bide there and I’ll open the door to you and let you in.” With that he shuffled off from the window wheezing and muttering to himself.