The heaviness of the place made me feel that I was standing in the face of danger. Everything I touched seemed to warn me that we were falling deeper and deeper into a trap. The broken chair, the hole in the plaster, the blood upon the wall, the very darkness of the room, but above all the slow-witted craftiness of the old man, sent the creeps along my spine and made me anxious. A half hour passed. We had paced the length of the room a dozen times. We had sat down and risen again more than once. Charles went to the door. “I’ll take a look up the road,” he said. “If he’s not in sight, we’ll go.” I turned to follow him. He snapped the latch. He rattled it. He shook it with all his might. He faced me with his face gone white. “We’re locked in!” he exclaimed. “The old rat has made us prisoners.” I ran back to the door that led to the kitchen. “We’re caught!” I called. “The windows are too small for us to crawl out. The old fellow has gone to summon our enemies.” “The truth of it,” said Charles, “is that we have come to the wrong place. The inn of the Cross-Roads must be further down the highway.” “Well?” I said. “What’s to be done?” He motioned me to the long oaken bench that lay at the table. “We’ll hammer down the door,” he replied. “Do you take that end. I’ll take this——” It was as much as we could do to lift it. We held it lengthwise towards the door. Then with a run we crashed the end into the lower panels. The echo was like thunder in the room. The door trembled on its hinges and the lock creaked. Again we drew back. Again we came forward. The door bent in the middle and a long crack let the light in from the outside. “Once more,” cried Charles, “and we’ll be free.” We took a short rest and caught our breath. The third time the end of the bench crashed against the cross-piece in the middle. There was a noise of splintering wood. I thought the house was tumbling about our ears. The door was torn from its hinges and with a clap fell towards the outside flat on the road. I blinked against the bright light of the sun. Then I recoiled, for not ten feet away there came running the landlord, panting for dear life, with his mouth open and his beady eyes glittering with the fire of anger. At his side were two men, rough fellows, who looked as though they might slit your throat for a copper groat. To my dismay one of them was the man from whom I had escaped while we were swimming in the river. “There they are!” cried the landlord pointing at us with his skinny finger. “They’re tearing my house down. Stop them!” His jaw wriggled from side to side and his hands shook with excitement. His voice which began in a high shrill cackle turned to a shaking laugh. “That one there” (he meant me) “wants to know how he can go to the Black Prince. Ha! Ha! Ha!” In the next breath they were upon us. CHAPTER XXIII THE FIGHT IN THE INN