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Weyman, Stanley John, 1855-1928

"Under the Red Robe"

The summons was repeated.
'Well?' I cried, rising on my elbow, and cursing the untimely
interruption. I was burning with anxiety to see more. 'What is
it? What is the matter?'
The trap-door was lifted a foot or more. The landlord thrust up
his head.
'You called, did you not?' he said.
He held up a rushlight, which illumined half the room and lit up
his grinning face.
'Called--at this hour of the night, you fool?' I answered
angrily. 'No! I did not call. Go to bed, man!'
But he remained on the ladder, gaping stupidly. 'I heard you,'
he said.
'Go to bed! You are drunk,' I answered, sitting up. 'I tell you
I did not call.'
'Oh, very well,' he answered slowly. 'And you do not want
anything?'
'Nothing--except to be left alone,' I replied sourly.
'Umph!' he said. 'Good-night!'
'Good-night! Good-night!' I answered with what patience I
might. The tramp of the horse's hoofs as it was led out of the
stable was in my ears at the moment. 'Good-night!' I continued
feverishly, hoping that he would still retire in time, and I have
a chance to look out.


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