The golden summer moon was far up now, and the yellow light of it came
into the window and illumined the grim face of the innkeeper, throwing
a grotesque shadow of him onto the floor. The leaves rustled and
purred against the eaves. As the branches moved so did the light and
darkness move over the innkeeper's visage. He was silent and
meditative.

"An epic?" I said.

"An epic."

"Innkeeper," said I, "if I give you my word of honor not to molest you
or leave this room, will you let me be a witness?"

He passed into the gloom, then back into the light.

"This is no trick?" suspiciously. "I have a deal of regard for my
bones, old as they are."

"On my honor."

"Well, I'll do it. It is in the blood of us all. But a false move on
your part, and I promise you that this knife shall find a resting place
in you."

He cut the ropes and I was free. But my arms ached.

The two of us took our stand by the window and waited for the
principals in the drama about to be enacted in the clearing. I confess
that my conscience was ill at ease; why, I knew not. I was dreading
something, I knew not what. The inn-keeper's hand trembled on my arm.