The Prisoner of Zenda by Anthony Hope (the little red hen read aloud .TXT) 📖

“Will you let us in? We pledge our honour to observe the truce.”

“Don’t trust them,” whispered Antoinette.

“We can speak through the door,” said I.

“But you might open it and fire,” objected Detchard; “and though we should finish you, you might finish one of us. Will you give your honour not to fire while we talk?”

“Don’t trust them,” whispered Antoinette again.

A sudden idea struck me. I considered it for a moment. It seemed feasible.

“I give my honour not to fire before you do,” said I; “but I won’t let you in. Stand outside and talk.”

“That’s sensible,” he said.

The three mounted the last step, and stood just outside the door. I laid my ear to the chink. I could hear no words, but Detchard’s head was close to that of the taller of his companions (De Gautet, I guessed).

“H’m! Private communications,” thought I. Then I said aloud:

“Well, gentlemen, what’s the offer?”

“A safe-conduct to the frontier, and fifty thousand pounds English.”

“No, no,” whispered Antoinette in the lowest of whispers. “They are treacherous.”

“That seems handsome,” said I, reconnoitering through the chink. They were all close together, just outside the door now.

I had probed the hearts of the ruffians, and I did not need Antoinette’s warning. They meant to “rush” me as soon as I was engaged in talk.

“Give me a minute to consider,” said I; and I thought I heard a laugh outside.

I turned to Antoinette.

“Stand up close to the wall, out of the line of fire from the door,” I whispered.

“What are you going to do?” she asked in fright.

“You’ll see,” said I.

I took up the little iron table. It was not very heavy for a man of my strength, and I held it by the legs. The top, protruding in front of me, made a complete screen for my head and body. I fastened my closed lantern to my belt and put my revolver in a handy pocket. Suddenly I saw the door move ever so slightly—perhaps it was the wind, perhaps it was a hand trying it outside.

I drew back as far as I could from the door, holding the table in the position that I have described. Then I called out:

“Gentlemen, I accept your offer, relying on your honour. If you will open the door—”

“Open it yourself,” said Detchard.

“It opens outwards,” said I. “Stand back a little, gentlemen, or I shall hit you when I open it.”

I went and fumbled with the latch. Then I stole back to my place on tiptoe.

“I can’t open it!” I cried. “The latch has caught.”

“Tut! I’ll open it!” cried Detchard. “Nonsense, Bersonin, why not? Are you afraid of one man?”

I smiled to myself. An instant later the door was flung back. The gleam of a lantern showed me the three close together outside, their revolvers levelled. With a shout, I charged at my utmost pace across the summer-house and through the doorway. Three shots rang out and battered into my shield. Another moment, and I leapt out and the table caught them full and square, and in a tumbling, swearing, struggling mass, they and I and that brave table, rolled down the steps of the summerhouse to the ground below. Antoinette de Mauban shrieked, but I rose to my feet, laughing aloud.

De Gautet and Bersonin lay like men stunned. Detchard was under the table, but, as I rose, he pushed it from him and fired again. I raised my revolver and took a snap shot; I heard him curse, and then I ran like a hare, laughing as I went, past the summer-house and along by the wall. I heard steps behind me, and turning round I fired again for luck. The steps ceased.

“Please God,” said I, “she told me the truth about the ladder!” for the wall was high and topped with iron spikes.

Yes, there it was. I was up and over in a minute. Doubling back, I saw the horses; then I heard a shot. It was Sapt. He had heard us, and was battling and raging with the locked gate, hammering it and firing into the keyhole like a man possessed. He had quite forgotten that he was not to take part in the fight. Whereat I laughed again, and said, as I clapped him on the shoulder:

“Come home to bed, old chap. I’ve got the finest tea-table story that ever you heard!”

He started and cried: “You’re safe!” and wrung my hand. But a moment later he added:

“And what the devil are you laughing at?”

“Four gentlemen round a tea-table,” said I, laughing still, for it had been uncommonly ludicrous to see the formidable three altogether routed and scattered with no more deadly weapon than an ordinary tea-table.

Moreover, you will observe that I had honourably kept my word, and not fired till they did.