The Man Upstairs and Other Stories
Agravaine felt that the dragon might be counted upon to do that. He
said as much.
'Ah, yes, the dragon,' said Earl Dorm, 'I was forgetting the dragon. I
want to have a long talk with you about that dragon. Not now. Later
on.'
His eye caught Agravaine's, and he smiled that weak, cunning smile of
his. And for the first time the knight was conscious of a curious
feeling that all was not square and aboveboard in this castle. A
conviction began to steal over him that in some way he was being played
with, that some game was afoot which he did not understand, that--in a
word--there was dirty work at the cross-roads.
There was a touch of mystery in the atmosphere which made him vaguely
uneasy. When a fiery dragon is ravaging the country-side to such an
extent that the S.O.S. call has been sent out to the Round Table, a
knight has a right to expect the monster to be the main theme of
conversation. The tendency on his host's part was apparently to avoid
touching on the subject at all. He was vague and elusive; and the one
topic on which an honest man is not vague and elusive is that of fiery
dragons. It was not right. It was as if one should phone for the police
and engage them, on arrival, in a discussion on the day's football
results.
A wave of distrust swept over Agravaine. He had heard stories of robber
chiefs who lured strangers into their strongholds and then held them
prisoners while the public nervously dodged their anxious friends who
had formed subscription lists to make up the ransom. Could this be such
a case? The man certainly had an evasive manner and a smile which would
have justified any jury in returning a verdict without leaving the box.
On the other hand, there was Yvonne. His reason revolted against the
idea of that sweet girl being a party to any such conspiracy.
No, probably it was only the Earl's unfortunate manner. Perhaps he
suffered from some muscular weakness of the face which made him smile
like that.
Nevertheless, he certainly wished that he had not allowed himself to be
deprived of his sword and armour. At the time it had seemed to him that
the Earl's remark that the latter needed polishing and the former
stropping betrayed only a kindly consideration for his guest's well-being.
Now, it had the aspect of being part of a carefully-constructed plot.
On the other hand--here philosophy came to his rescue--if anybody did
mean to start anything, his sword and armour might just as well not be
there. Any one of those mammoth low-brows at the door could eat him,
armour and all.
He resumed his meal, uneasy but resigned.
Dinner at Earl Dorm's was no lunch-counter scuffle. It started early
and finished late. It was not till an advanced hour that Agravaine was
conducted to his room.
The room which had been allotted to him was high up in the eastern
tower. It was a nice room, but to one in Agravaine's state of
suppressed suspicion a trifle too solidly upholstered. The door was of
the thickest oak, studded with iron nails. Iron bars formed a neat
pattern across the only window.
Hardly had Agravaine observed these things when the door opened, and
before him stood the damsel Yvonne, pale of face and panting for
breath.
She leaned against the doorpost and gulped.
'Fly!' she whispered.
Reader, if you had come to spend the night in the lonely castle of a
perfect stranger with a shifty eye and a rogues' gallery smile, and on
retiring to your room had found the door kick-proof and the window
barred, and if, immediately after your discovery of these phenomena, a
white-faced young lady had plunged in upon you and urged you to
immediate flight, wouldn't that jar you?
It jarred Agravaine.
'Eh?' he cried.
'Fly! Fly, Sir Knight.'
Another footstep sounded in the passage. The damsel gave a startled
look over her shoulder.
'And what's all this?'
Earl Dorm appeared in the dim-lit corridor. His voice had a nasty
tinkle in it.
'Your--your daughter,' said Agravaine, hurriedly, 'was just telling me
that breakfast would--'
The sentence remained unfinished. A sudden movement of the earl's hand,
and the great door banged in his face. There came the sound of a bolt
shooting into its socket. A key turned in the lock. He was trapped.
Outside, the earl had seized his daughter by the wrist and was
administering a paternal cross-examination.
'What were you saying to him?'
Yvonne did not flinch.
'I was bidding him fly.'
'If he wants to leave this castle,' said the earl, grimly, 'he'll have
to.'
'Father,' said Yvonne,' I can't.'
'Can't what?'
'I can't.'
His grip on her wrist tightened. From the other side of the door came
the muffled sound of blows on the solid oak. 'Oh?' said Earl Dorm.
'You can't, eh? Well, listen to me. You've got to. Do you understand? I
admit he might be better-looking, but--'
'Father, I love him.'
He released her wrist, and stared at her in the uncertain light.
'You love him!'
'Yes.'
'Then what--? Why? Well, I never did understand women,' he said at
last, and stumped off down the passage.
While this cryptic conversation was in progress, Agravaine, his worst
apprehensions realized, was trying to batter down the door. After a few
moments, however, he realized the futility of his efforts, and sat down
on the bed to think.
At the risk of forfeiting the reader's respect, it must be admitted
that his first emotion was one of profound relief. If he was locked up
like this, it must mean that that dragon story was fictitious, and that
all danger was at an end of having to pit his inexperience against a
ravening monster who had spent a lifetime devouring knights. He had
never liked the prospect, though he had been prepared to go through
with it, and to feel that it was definitely cancelled made up for a
good deal.
His mind next turned to his immediate future. What were they going to
do with him? On this point he felt tolerably comfortable. This
imprisonment could mean nothing more than that he would be compelled to
disgorge a ransom. This did not trouble him. He was rich, and, now that
the situation had been switched to a purely business basis, he felt
that he could handle it.
In any case, there was nothing to be gained by sitting up, so he went
to bed, like a good philosopher.
The sun was pouring through the barred window when he was awoken by the
entrance of a gigantic figure bearing food and drink.
He recognized him as one of the scurvy knaves who had dined at the
bottom of the room the night before--a vast, beetle-browed fellow with
a squint, a mop of red hair, and a genius for silence. To Agravaine's
attempts to engage him in conversation he replied only with grunts, and
in a short time left the room, closing and locking the door behind him.
He was succeeded at dusk by another of about the same size and
ugliness, and with even less conversational _elan_. This one did
not even grunt.
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 Knight!' 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!'
'You don't understand. He--No, I cannot tell you. Fly!'
'What don't I understand?'
She was silent. Then she began to speak rapidly. 'Very well. I will
tell you. Listen. My father had six children, all daughters. We were
poor. We had to stay buried in this out-of-the-way spot. We saw no one.
It seemed impossible that any of us should ever marry. My father was in
despair. Then he said, "If we cannot get to town, the town must come to
us." So he sent my sister Yseult to Camelot to ask the king to let us
have a knight to protect us against a giant with three heads. There was
no giant, but she got the knight. It was Sir Sagramore. Perhaps you
knew him?'
Agravaine nodded. He began to see daylight.
'My sister Yseult was very beautiful. After the first day Sir Sagramore
forgot all about the giant, and seemed to want to do nothing else