With a loud sigh and a noisy movement such as a man halfway between wakefulness and sleep may make he flung himself over onto his left side.  At the same moment he lifted the white sign-board onto the bed.  It seemed that he could not rest on his left side, for he flung over again to his right and pulled the bedclothes over as he turned.  The sign-board now lay flat upon the bed, but on the right side between himself and the man upon the floor.  His mouth uttered a little murmur of contentment, he drew down the hand beneath the pillow, and in a second was breathing regularly and peacefully.

[Illustration:  “With his right arm he drove his hunting knife down into the back of the hand.”—­Page 69.]

The hand crept onto the bed again and upwards, and suddenly lay spread out upon the board and quite still.  Just for a second the owner of that hand had been surprised and paralysed by the unexpected.  It was only that second which Wogan needed.  He sat up, and with his right arm he drove his hunting knife down into the back of the hand and pinned it fast to the board; with his left he felt for, found, and gripped a mouth already open to cry out.  He dropped his hunting knife, caught the intruder round the waist, lifted him onto the bed, and setting a knee upon his chest gagged him with an end of the sheet.  The man fought wildly with his free hand, beating the air.  Wogan knelt upon that arm with his other knee.

Wogan needed a rope, but since he had none he used the sheets and bound his prisoner to the bed.  Then he got up and went to the door.  The house was quite silent, quite dark.  Wogan shut the door gently—­there was no key in the lock—­and bending over the bed looked into the face of his assailant.  The face was twisted with pain, the whites of the eyes glared horribly, but Wogan could see that the man was his landlord.

He stood up and thought.  There was another man who had met him in the village and had guided him to the inn; there was still a third who had gone out of the kitchen as Wogan had entered it; there was the wife, too, who might be awake.

Wogan crossed to the window and looked out.  The window was perhaps twenty feet from the ground, but the stanchion was three feet below the window.  He quickly put on his clothes, slipped the letter from under his pillow into a pocket, strapped his saddle-bag and lowered it from the window by a blanket.  He had already one leg on the sill when a convulsive movement of the man on the bed made him stop.  He climbed back into the room, drew the knife out of the board and out of the hand pinned to the board, and making a bandage wrapped the wound up.