'At Rochelle. He was a spy, and the king's people took him the
day the town surrendered. They spared his life, but cut out his
tongue.'

'Ah!' I said. I wished to say more, to be natural, to show
myself at my ease. But the porter's eyes seemed to burn into me,
and my own tongue clave to the roof of my mouth. He opened his
lips and pointed to his throat with a horrid gesture, and I shook
my head and turned from him--'You can let me have some bedding?'
I murmured hastily, for the sake of saying something, and to
escape.

'Of course, Monsieur,' Louis answered. 'I will fetch some.'

He went away, thinking doubtless that Clon would stay with me.
But after waiting a minute the porter strode off also with the
lanthorn, leaving me to stand in the middle of the damp, dark
room and reflect on the position. It was plain that Clon
suspected me. This prison-like room, with its barred window, at
the back of the house, and in the wing farthest from the stables,
proved so much. Clearly, he was a dangerous fellow, of whom I
must beware. I had just begun to wonder how Madame could keep
such a monster in her house, when I heard his step returning. He
came in, lighting Louis, who carried a small pallet and a bundle
of coverings.

The dumb man had, besides the lanthorn, a bowl of water and a
piece of rag in his hand. He set them down, and going out again,
fetched in a stool. Then he hung up the lanthorn on a nail, took