Then she
passed slowly into the house again. A moment later the door of
the hall was flung open, and a shouting stumbling throng came
crowding forth, with whoop and yell, into the silent night.
Linking arms and striking up a chorus, they marched past the
peat-cutting, their voices dwindling slowly away as they made for
their homes.
"Now, Samkin, now!" cried Simon, and jumping out from the
hiding-place he made for the door. It had not yet been fastened.
The two comrades sprang inside. Then Simon drew the bolts so that
none might interrupt them.
A long table littered with flagons and beakers lay before them.
It was lit up by a line of torches, which flickered and smoked in
their iron sconces. At the farther end a solitary man was seated.
His head rested upon his two hands, as if he were befuddled with
wine, but at the harsh sound of the snapping bolts he raised his
face and looked angrily around him. It was a strange powerful
head, tawny and shaggy like a lion's, with a tangled beard and a
large harsh face, bloated and blotched with vice. He laughed as
the newcomers entered, thinking that two of his boon companions
had returned to finish a flagon. Then he stared hard and he
passed his hand over his eyes like one who thinks he may be
dreaming.
"Mon Dieu!" he cried. "Who are you and whence come you at this
hour of the night? Is this the way to break into our royal
presence?"
Simon approached up one side of the table and Aylward up the
other.
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