The stream he had followed he now had lost. It was pitchy dark, with a
most villainous storm of rain and wind. Saracen caught the infection
of his master's doubts; he stopped short, and bowed his head to snuff
the ground. Prosper laughed at the plight they were both in, and
looked about him, considering what he should do. Very far off he could
see a feeble light flickering; it was the only speck of brightness
within his vision, and he judged it too steady for a fen-flame.
Lodging of some sort should be there, for where there is a candle
there is a candlestick. This was not firelight. To it he turned his
tired beast, and found that he had been well advised. He was before a
mud-walled hovel; there through the horn he saw the candle-flame. He
drew his sword and beat upon the door. For answer the light was blown
swiftly out, and the darkness swam about him like ink.
"Scared folk!" he laughed to himself, hammering at the door with a
will.
Then Isoult stirred on his arm and awoke with a little whimper, half
dreaming still, and not knowing where she was. She sat up in the
saddle dazed with sleep.
"The night is wild," said Prosper, "and I have found us the shadow of
a shade, but as yet we lack the substance." Then he set-to, pounding
at the door again, and crying to those within to open for the sake of
all the saints he could remember.
Isoult freed herself from the cloak, and slid down from her seat in
the saddle. Putting her face close to the door she whistled a low
note. The candle was re-lit, many bolts were withdrawn; finally the
door opened a little way, and an old man put his head through the
chink, staring out into the dark.
"God's life, you little rip," said the anxious rogue, "you gave us a
turn!"
Isoult spoke eagerly and fast, but too low for Prosper to hear what
she said. The man was in no mind to open further, and the more he
speered at the horseman the less he seemed to like it. Nevertheless,
after a time the girl was let into the hut, and the door slammed and
bolted as before. Between the shocks of the storm Prosper could now
hear a confusion of voices--Isoult's, low, even, clear and quick; the
grating comments of the old rogue who kept the door, and another voice
that trembled and wailed as if passion struggled with the age in it,
to see which should be master. Once he thought to catch a fourth--a
brisk man's voice, with laughter and some sort of authority in it,
which seemed familiar; but he could not be sure about this. In the
main three persons held the debate.