By which it may be seen that Sir Nicholas counted the sentry outside his door a dead man already.
He moved to the table, and wrote three lines to Joshua. They were quite simple.
“Be ready tomorrow evening with a rope outside the wall on the opposite side of the building to this. When you hear my whistle, cast it across and hold tightly.
”
This he twisted into a screw and put away in his bosom. Upon the following morning Joshua walked down the street again. The screw of paper went fluttering down from Beauvallet’s window, and was swiftly pounced on.
Joshua went back to his tavern strutting lightheartedly.
XVIII
Ever since the first day of his imprisonment Sir Nicholas had been waited on always by two men. Never one came without the other, and although, gradually, this precaution had become little more than a form it was still observed. Sir Nicholas pulled a wry face over it. Truly they held him to be a desperate man since they kept a sentry outside his room, and dared not send a single armed man to take his meals to him. Well, they were right, but he thought he had successfully lulled their fears. For his escape to have the smallest chance of success one of those men must be got out of the room. All hung on that; if one man could not be induced to leave the room torture and the fire awaited Sir Nicholas, as he very well knew.
He had chosen his time carefully, and knew that he could trust Joshua to do his part. Every evening at dusk supper was brought to Sir Nicholas from the Governor’s kitchens. The cook was at pains to please the unwilling guest, for there was still enough money left in Beauvallet’s pockets to provide a sufficient incentive. The cook, receiving a double ducat, sent with a compliment, vowed the Chevalier was a true gentleman, and devised subtleties for his delectation.
Upon the day chosen by Sir Nicholas for his attempt at escape, his two gaolers came a little late with his supper. One of them, the senior, had charge of the key of his room, and always locked the door punctiliously upon the inside when he entered, and continued to hold the key in his hand while his fellow set covers on the table and lit the candles.
Sir Nicholas had a high-backed chair with arms and a velvet seat to sit in, but he was not sitting in it when the two soldiers entered. He was standing near the window, leaning his shoulders against the wall, and whistling a cheerful tune to himself.
“I thought I was to be starved,” he remarked, and came lounging over to the table and sat himself down on the arm of his chair, idly swinging one foot.
The chief gaoler smiled indulgently. “No, no, señor. It is only that the cook spoiled one of the dishes—or rather, I should say, that one of the scullions, left to stir it, let it burn a little—and the whole had to be made again.”
The other man was busy shaking out a cloth and spreading it over the table. Sir Nicholas sniffed the air. “Well, it hath a very savoury odour,” he said. “Let us see the chef d’oeuvre.”
The knife was set, a bottle of wine placed carefully beside the cup at Beauvallet’s elbow, and a shining cover lifted with a flourish.
“Marvellous!” said Sir Nicholas. He still sat negligently on the arm of his chair, sideways to the table. “Present my compliments to the cook.” He stretched out his hand for the bottle, while the soldier took salt and pepper from the tray he had brought, and put them on the table. He poured out a cupful of the wine, and raised it with a little laugh. “Tell the cook I drink his very good health!” he said, and made as if to toss off the wine. But that fine gesture was stayed before he had done more than taste it. The cup left his lips; he pulled a grimace. “My very dear friends!” he said. “What’s this? Do you seek to poison me? What have you brought me here?”
The soldiers stared at him. “Madre de Dios, señor, there is no thought of poisoning you!” said one of them, shocked.
Sir Nicholas smiled. “I did but jest. But you have brought me a very vile potion, none the less. Let me have another bottle, my good fellow. Take this away.”
The chief frowned upon his subordinate, shifting the blame from off his own shoulders. “Dolt! Take up the bottle! What, do you bring the señor bad wine? Pardon, señor! an oversight. The cup, fool! take away the cup and bring a clean one back!” He hustled his protesting fellow towards the door.
“It was you chose the wine,” grumbled the unfortunate.
“You confused the bottles,” the other said hastily. “Get you gone, get you gone! Will you have the señor’s supper grow cold?”
“You have the key,” his subordinate pointed out. “I did not confuse the bottles, I tell you. You yourself—”
“A’God’s mercy, have done!” struck in Sir Nicholas curtly. “I care not who made the mistake so long as you bring me a fresh bottle.”
“On the instant, señor!” his gaoler assured him, responding instinctively to the voice of authority. He unlocked the door, pushed the wine-bearer out, and slammed the door again behind him, once more locking it.
Sir Nicholas’ lashes drooped over his eyes, hiding the sudden gleam in them. The departing soldier had not taken the key with him. “Put the cover over this very choice dish again, my man,” said Sir Nicholas.
“Certainly, señor!” The man picked it up and came all unsuspecting to the table.
Sir Nicholas’ hand had left playing with his pomander; his foot had stopped its gentle swinging, and the toe of it was firm-planted on the floor. The soldier bent to put the cover
