Small-talk, it seemed, was not an art cultivated in any great measure by the lower orders in the employment of Earl Dorm.
The next day passed without incident. In the morning the strabismic plug-ugly with the red hair brought him food and drink, while in the evening the non-grunter did the honours. It was a peaceful life, but tending towards monotony, and Agravaine was soon in the frame of mind which welcomes any break in the daily round.
He was fortunate enough to get it.
He had composed himself for sleep that night, and was just dropping comfortably off, when from the other side of the door he heard the sound of angry voices.
It was enough to arouse him. On the previous night silence had reigned. Evidently something out of the ordinary was taking place.
He listened intently and distinguished words.
“Who was it I did see thee coming down the road with?”
“Who was it thou didst see me coming down the road with?”
“Aye, who was it I did see thee coming down the road with?”
“Who dost thou think thou art?”
“Who do I think that I am?”
“Aye, who dost thou think thou art?”
Agravaine could make nothing of it. As a matter of fact, he was hearing the first genuine cross-talk that had ever occurred in those dim, pre-music-hall days. In years to come dialogue on these lines was to be popular throughout the length and breadth of Great Britain. But till then it had been unknown.
The voices grew angrier. To an initiated listener it would have been plain that in a short while words would be found inadequate and the dagger, that medieval forerunner of the slap-stick, brought into play. But to Agravaine, all inexperienced, it came as a surprise when suddenly with a muffled thud two bodies fell against the door. There was a scuffling noise, some groans, and then silence.
And then with amazement he heard the bolt shoot back and a key grate in the keyhole.
The door swung open. It was dark outside, but Agravaine could distinguish a female form, and, beyond, a shapeless mass which he took correctly to be the remains of the two plug-uglies.
“It is I, Yvonne,” said a voice.
“What is it? What has been happening?”
“It was I. I set them against each other. They both loved one of the kitchen-maids. I made them jealous. I told Walt privily that she had favoured Dickon, and Dickon privily that she loved Walt. And now-”
She glanced at the shapeless heap, and shuddered. Agravaine nodded.
“No wedding-bells for her,” he said, reverently.
“And I don’t care. I did it to save you. But come! We are wasting time. Come! I will help you to escape.”
A man who has been shut up for two days in a small room is seldom slow off the mark when a chance presents itself of taking exercise. Agravaine followed without a word, and together they crept down the dark staircase until they had reached the main hall. From somewhere in the distance came the rhythmic snores of scurvy knaves getting their eight hours.
Softly Yvonne unbolted a small door, and, passing through it, Agravaine found himself looking up at the stars, while the great walls of the castle towered above him
“Good-bye,” said Yvonne.
There was a pause. For the first time Agravaine found himself examining the exact position of affairs. After his sojourn in the guarded room, freedom looked very good to him. But freedom meant parting from Yvonne.
He looked at the sky and he looked at the castle walls, and he took a step back towards the door.
“I’m not so sure I want to go,” he said.
“Oh, fly! Fly, Sir Kinght!” she cried.
“You don’t understand,” said Agravaine. “I don’t want to seem to be saying anything that might be interpreted as in the least derogatory to your father in any way whatever, but without prejudice, surely he is just a plain, ordinary brigand? I mean it’s only a question of a ransom? And I don’t in the least object-”
“No, no, no.” Her voice trembled. “He would ask no ransom.”
“Don’t tell me he kidnaps people just as a hobby!”