The men tried to make Tom understand that his companion should go back to the valley; but that could not be done till the morrow, and presently the pair were left alone in their room.

This room was only separated from the next by some rude split pine trunks.  Tom had seen upon entering that a light had been quickly extinguished, otherwise he would have seen clearly through the chinks who the occupant was.  He knew perfectly that every word they spoke could be overheard, and every action they performed duly watched; and he entered into the game of play acting with a zeal that gave him greater aptitude than he had thought to possess.

He strove to get his master to take the broth that one of the men brought up; he entreated him not to give way; and finally he agreed that it would be impossible for the sick man to attempt further travel, and offered himself to bear the packet of letters into Italy.

Then came the projected piece of play acting—­the ripping up of the doublet, the sewing of the sealed packet into Tom’s clothes, promises, directions, warnings, all given with apparent feeble energy, and received with faithful eagerness.

And all the while Tom was aware that close to them, just behind the thin partition, other eyes were watching, other ears listening to all that passed.  He could even hear the short breathings of repressed excitement, and almost feel the keen gaze which he knew was constantly bent upon him.

When all was done to the satisfaction of the sick man, Tom extinguished the light, and lay down beside him on the rude bed.  After his long sleep of the previous day, he cared little whether he slumbered or not—­indeed, it seemed better that he should keep awake.  His head was full of the adventure which lay before him, and he was almost certain that he heard whispering voices either in the next room or below; by which he guessed that their enemies, having discovered all they wanted to know, were now laying their plans how best they might carry out their own designs.

CHAPTER XI.  THE PIOUS MONKS OF ST. BERNARD.

Tom knew quite well that he was being followed.  He had been aware of it almost from the first.  He felt an exultant triumph in the thought that they had outwitted the astute Sir James, and that his emissaries were following the wrong man, falling into the trap which had been laid for them.

Tom’s business was to lead them as long a dance as possible.  He had no other object in view.  He had no intention of pushing onwards into Italy.  In a strange country, surrounded by people of a strange tongue, he would be perfectly helpless.  He had picked up just a few words of French, and of the patois of these mountain regions, enough to enable him to obtain the necessaries of life on this side the Alps.  And on this side he meant to remain, doubling back, if possible, and eluding his pursuers; hoping to find shelter at the monastery of the Great St. Bernard, and await there the return of Lord Claud.