My footsteps made such a racket on
their old timbers as fairly to frighten me, but it never disturbed
the flute-player. He had harked back again to "Like Hermit Poor" by
this time, and the dolefulness of it was fit to make the dead cry
out, but he went whining on until I reached the head of the stairs
and struck a rousing knock on the door.
The playing stopped. "Come in," said a cheery voice; but it gave me
no cheerfulness. Instead of that, it sent all the comfort of my
supper clean out of me, as I opened the door and saw _him_ sitting
there.
There he was, the man who had saved my neck that day, and whom most I
hated in the world, sitting before a snug fire, with his flute on his
knee, a glass of port wine at his elbow, and looking so comfortable,
with that knowing light in his grey eyes, that I could have killed
him where he sat.
"Oh, it's you, is it?" he said, just the very least bit surprised and
no more. "Come in."
I stood in the doorway hesitating.
"Don't stay letting in that monstrous draught, man; but sit down.
You'll find the bottle on the table and a glass on the shelf."
I poured out a glassful and drank it off. The stuff was rare (I can
remember its trick on the tongue to this day), but somehow it did not
drive the cold out of my heart. I took another glass, and sat
sipping it and staring from the fire to my companion.
He had taken up the flute again, and was blowing a few deep notes out
of it, thoughtfully enough.
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