I had a knife and had it in my hand, ready to charge for freedom.  But the door opened slowly, and Gervais looked out for me—­to the effect that my knife went one way and I another before I could wink.  I reeled against the wall and stayed there, cursing myself for a fool that I had not trusted to fair words instead of to my dagger.

“Well done, my brave Gervais!” cried he of the vivid voice—­a tall fair-haired youth, whom I had seen before.  So had I seen the stalwart blackbeard, Gervais.  The third man was older, a common-looking fellow whose face was new to me.  All three were in their shirts on account of the heat; all were plain, even shabby, in their dress.  But the two young men wore swords at their sides.

The half-opened shutters, overhanging the court, let plenty of light into the room.  It had two straw beds on the floor and a few old chairs and stools, and a table covered with dishes and broken food and wine-bottles.  More bottles, riding-boots, whips and spurs, two or three hats and saddle-bags, and various odds and ends of dress littered the floor and the chairs.  Everything was of mean quality except the bearing of the two young men.  A gentleman is a gentleman even in the Rue Coupejarrets—­all the more, maybe, in the Rue Coupejarrets.  These two were gently born.

The low man, with scared face, held off from me.  He whose name was Gervais confronted me with an angry scowl.  Yeux-gris alone—­for so I dubbed the third, from his gray eyes, well open under dark brows—­Yeux-gris looked no whit alarmed or angered; the only emotion to be read in his face was a gay interest as the blackavised Gervais put me questions.

“How came you here?  What are you about?”

“No harm, messieurs,” I made haste to protest, ruing my stupidity with that dagger.  “I climbed in at a window for sport.  I thought the house was deserted.”

He clutched my shoulder till I could have screamed for pain.

“The truth, now.  If you value your life you will tell the truth.”

“Monsieur, it is the truth.  I came in idle mischief; that was the whole of it.  I had no notion of breaking in upon you or any one.  They said the house was haunted.”

“Who said that?”

“Maitre Jacques, at the Amour de Dieu.”

He stared at me in surprise.

“What had you been asking about this house?”

Yeux-gris, lounging against the table, struck in: 

“I can tell you that myself.  He told Jacques he saw us in the window last night.  Did you not?”

“Aye, monsieur.  The thunder woke me, and when I looked out I saw you plain as day.  But Maitre Jacques said it was a vision.”

“I flattered myself I saw you first and got that shutter closed very neatly,” said Yeux-gris.  “Dame!  I am not so clever as I thought.  So old Jacques called us ghosts, did he?”

“Yes, monsieur.  He told me this house belonged to M. de Bethune, who was a Huguenot and killed in the massacre.”