at it was worth I did not know,
saying firmly "Zwolle-Haus. Go on. Zwolle-Haus."

The ostler smiled as he repeated Zwolle-Haus, pointing to the tavern
itself, which, by good luck, was the very house.

"M. Stendhal," I said. "Where is M. Stendhal? Mynheer Stendhal? Mynheer
Stendhal Haus?"

The ostler repeated, "Stendhal? Stendhal? Ah, ja. Stendhal. Da." He
pointed down a narrow street which led, as I could see, to a canal
wharf.

I thanked him in English, giving him another silver piece. Then off I
went, tottering on my toes with the strangeness of walking after so long
a ride. I was not out of the wood yet, by a long way. At every second,
as I hurried on, I expected to hear cries of my pursuers, as they
charged down the narrow street after me. I tried to run, but my legs
felt so funny, it was like running in a dream. I just felt that I was
walking on pillows, instead of legs. Luckily that little narrow street
was only fifty yards long. It was with a great gasp of relief that I
got to the end of it. When I could turn to my right out of sight of the
square I felt that I was saved. I had been but a minute ahead of the
pursuers outside on the open. Directly after my entrance, some cart or
waggon went out of the town, filling the narrow gateway full, so that my
enemies were forced to pull up. This gave me a fair start, without which
I could hardly have won clear. If it had not been for that lucky waggon,
who knows what would have happened?

As it was, I tottered along with drawn pistol to the door of a great
house (luckily for me the only house), which fronted the canal. I must
have seemed a queer object, coming in from my ride like that, in a
peaceful Dutch town. If I had chanced upon a magistrate I suppose I
should have been locked up; but luck was with me on that day. I chanced
only on Mynheer Stendhal as he sat smoking among his tulips in the front
of his mansion. He jumped up with a "God bless me!" when he saw me.

"Mynheer Stendhal?" I asked.

"Yes," he said in good English. "What is it, boy?"

"Take me in quick," I said. "They're after me."

CHAPTER X. SOUNDS IN THE NIGHT

In another minute, after Mr. Stendhal had read my note, I was skinning
off my clothes in an upper bedroom. Within three minutes I was dressed
like a Dutch boy, in huge baggy striped trousers belonging to Stendhal's
son. In four minutes the swift Mr. Stendhal had walked me across the
wharf in sabots to one of the galliots in the canal