_Sacre_,
these lazy women! So she could not keep awake even for a lover!
The place was dark except for the glimmering light at the far end, and
he was obliged to feel his way to avoid the mules, who had an evil
trick of lashing out with their heels at anything in the vicinity.
At the foot of the steps he trod on a riding whip, which he recognised
as one belonging to Vardri.
In the dim circle of light cast by the smoky lamp there was only a
truss of hay disordered as if someone had lain upon it, and the
_manta_, and other things belonging to Arithelli.
There was one thing more, a sheet of paper covered closely with an
untidy scrawl.
The lynx eyes flashed, and Sobrenski bent eagerly forward.
Bad as the light was it had not taken him long to recognise the writing.
He held it close to the lamp, and smiled with satisfaction.
Nothing could be better from his point of view. In the first sentence
there was all, even more, than he wanted.
He smoothed it out between his pointed fingers, folded it, and bestowed
it carefully in an inside pocket.
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