Майн Рид
The White Gauntlet
As Scarthe said this, he raised his hand triumphantly towards the peak of his helmet; where a glove of white doeskin was seen conspicuously set – its tapering fingers turned forward, as if pointing in derision at him who possessed its fellow!
Scarthe’s gesture was superfluous. The eye of his adversary had been already fixed upon the indicated object; and the frown, that suddenly overspread his face, betrayed a strange commingling of emotions – surprise, incredulity, anger, with something more than its share of incipient jealousy.
Rushed into Holtspur’s mind at that moment, the recollection of the tête-à-tête, he had witnessed after parting with Marion Wade – her promenade up the long avenue, side by side with Scarthe – that short but bitter moment, when she had appeared complaisante.
If he wronged her in thought, he did not do so in speech. His jealousy kept silence; his anger alone found utterance.
“False trickster!” he cried, “’tis an impudent deception. She never gave you that glove. Thou hast found it – stolen it, more likely; and, by Heaven! I shall take it from thee, and restore it to its slandered owner – even here, in spite of your myrmidons! Yield it up, Richard Scarthe! or on the point of my sword – ”
The threat was left unfinished, or rather unheard: for, simultaneous with its utterance, came the action – Holtspur raising his naked blade, and rushing upon his adversary.
“Seize him!” cried the latter, reining his horse backward to escape the thrust. “Seize the rebel! Slay him, if he resist!”
At the command, half-a-dozen of the cuirassiers spurred their steeds forward to the spot. Some stretched forth their hands to lay hold upon Holtspur, while others aimed at striking him down with the butts of their carbines.
Garth and the Indian had sallied forth to defend their master; who, had it not been for this, would perhaps have made a more prolonged resistance. But the sight of his two faithful followers – thus unnecessarily risking their lives – caused him suddenly to change his mad design; and, without offering further resistance, he surrendered himself into the hands of the soldiers who had surrounded him.
“Fast bind the rebel!” cried Scarthe, endeavouring to conceal his chagrin, at having shown fear, by pouring forth a volley of loyal speeches.
“Relieve him of his worthless weapon! Tie him hand and foot – neck and crop! He is mad, and therefore dangerous. Ha! ha! ha! Tight, you knaves! Tight as a hangman’s neck-tie!”
The order was obeyed quickly – if not to the letter; and in a few seconds Henry Holtspur stood bound, in the midst of his jeering enemies.
“Bring forth his horse!” cried Scarthe, in mocking tones. “The black horseman! ha! ha! ha! Let him have one last ride on his favourite charger. After that, he shall ride at the King’s expense. Ha! ha! ha!”
The black steed, already saddled by Garth, was soon brought round, and led towards the captive. There was something significant in the neigh, to which Hubert gave utterance as he approached the spot – something mournful: as if he suspected, or knew, that his master was in a position of peril.
As he was conducted nearer, and at length placed side by side with the prisoner, he bent his neck round till his muzzle touched Holtspur’s cheek; while his low, tremulous whimpering proved, as plainly as words could have expressed it, that he comprehended all.
The cuirassier captain had watched the odd and affecting incident. Instead of exciting his sympathy, it only intensified his chagrin. The presence of that steed reminded him, more forcibly than ever, of his own humiliating defeat – of which the animal had been more than a little the cause. Scarthe hated the horse almost as much as his master!
“Now, brave sir!” shouted he, endeavouring, in a derisive strain, to drown the unpleasant memories which the sight of Hubert had summoned up. “Such a distinguished individual must not ride bareheaded along the king’s highway. Ho there! Bring out his beaver, and set it upon his crown jauntily – jauntily!”
Three or four of the cuirassiers, who had dismounted, were proceeding to obey this last order – and had already mounted the steps leading up to the entrance – when an ejaculation from their commander caused them to turn back.
“Never mind, my lads!” he cried, as if having changed his intention. “Back to your horses! Never mind the hat: I shall go for it myself.”
The final words of this injunction were rather muttered, than spoken aloud. It was not intended they should be heard. They appeared to be the involuntary expression of some secret purpose, which had suddenly suggested itself to the mind of the speaker.
After giving utterance to them, the cuirassier captain leaped silently out of his saddle; and, mounting the stone steps, entered the door of the dwelling.
He traversed the entrance-hall with searching glances, and continued on along the corridor – until he stood opposite the door of an apartment. It was the library late occupied by the conspirators. He knew its situation; and surmised that he would there find what he was seeking for.
He was not mistaken. On entering he saw the desired object – the hat of Holtspur, hanging upon the antlers of a stag that were fixed in a conspicuous position against the wall.
He clutched at the hat, and jerked it down – with as much eagerness, as if he feared that something might intervene to prevent him.
It needed no close scrutiny to discover the white gauntlet, still in its place beside the panache of ostrich feathers. On the next instant, the hat, though permitted to retain its plume, was despoiled of the doeskin.
With a bitter smile passing over his pale features, did Scarthe scan the two gloves once more brought together. Finger by finger, and stitch by stitch did he compare them – holding them side by side, and up to the window’s light. His smile degenerated into a frown, as, on the completion of the analysis, he became convinced – beyond the possibility of a doubt – that the glove taken from the hat of Henry Holtspur, and that now figuring on his own helmet, were fellows, and formed a pair. Right and left were they – the latter being the true love-token!
He had entertained a hope, though but a very slight one, that he might still be mistaken. He could indulge it no longer. The gauntlet, worn in the hat of the black horseman, must have once graced the fair fingers of Marion Wade.
“Has she given it to him? Need I ask the question? She must have done so, beyond a doubt. May the fiend fire my soul, if I do not find an opportunity to make her rue the gift!”
Such was the unamiable menace with which Scarthe completed the comparison of the gloves.
That, just taken from the hat of Holtspur, was now transferred to the breast of his doublet. Quick and secret was the transfer: as if he deemed it desirable that the act should not be observed.
“Go!” he commanded, addressing himself to one of the troopers who attended him, “go into the garden – if there be such a thing about this wretched place. If not, take to the fields; and procure me some flowers. Red ones – no matter what sort, so that they be of a bright red colour. Bring them hither, and be quick about it!”
The soldier – accustomed to obey orders without questioning – hurried out to execute the singular command.
“You,” continued Scarthe, speaking to the other trooper, who had entered with him, “you set about collecting those papers. Secure that valise. It appears to need no further packing. See that it be taken to Bulstrode. Search every room in the house; and bring out any arms or papers you may light upon. You know your work. Do it briskly!”
With like alacrity the second attendant hastened to perform the part allotted to him; and Scarthe was for the moment left to himself.
“I should be more hungry,” muttered he, “after these documents, I see scattered about, were I in need of them. No doubt there’s many a traitor’s name inscribed on their pages: and enough besides to compromise half the squires in the county. More than one, I warrant me, through this silent testimony, would become entitled to a cheap lodging in that grand tenement eastward of Cheap. It’s a sort of thing I don’t much relish; though now I’m into it, I may as well make a wholesale sweep of these conspiring churls. As for Holtspur and Sir Marmy, I need no written evidence of their guilt. My own oral testimony, conjoined with that of my worthy sub, will be sufficient to deprive one – or both, if need be – of their heads. So – to the devil with the documents!”
As he said this, he turned scornfully away from the table on which the papers were strewed.
“Stay!” he exclaimed – the instant after facing round again, with a look that betokened some sudden change in his views; “Not so fast, Richard Scarthe! Not so fast! Who knows that among this forest of treasonous scribbling, I may not find some flower of epistolary correspondence – a billet-doux. Ha! if there should be one from her! Strange, I did not think of it before. If – if – if – ”
In the earnestness, with which he proceeded to toss over the litter of letters and other documents, his hypothetical thought, whatever it was, remained unspoken.
For several minutes he busied himself among the papers – opening scores of epistles – in the expectation of finding one in a feminine hand, and bearing the signature: “Marion Wade.”
He was disappointed. No such name was to be found among the correspondents of Henry Holtspur. They were all of the masculine gender – all, or nearly all, politicians and conspirators!
Scarthe was about discontinuing his search – for he had opened everything in the shape of a letter – when a document of imposing aspect attracted his attention. It bore the royal signet upon its envelope.
“By the eyes of Argus!” cried he, as his own fell upon the well-known seal; “What see I? A letter from the King! What can his majesty have to communicate to this faithful subject, I wonder? Zounds! ’tis addressed to myself!”
“For ye Captain Scarthe,
“Command: H.M. Royal Cuirassiers,
“Bulstrode Park,
“Shire of Buckingham.”
“The intercepted despatch! Here’s a discovery! Henry Holtspur a footpad! In league with one, at all events – else how should he have become possessed of this? So – so! Not a traitor’s, but a felon’s death shall he die! The gibbet instead of the block! Ha! Mistress Marion Wade! you will repent the gift of your pretty glove, when you learn that you have bestowed it on a thief! By Saint Sulpiece! ’twill be a comical éclaircissement!”
“Ho, fellow! You’ve got the flowers?”
“I have, captain. They be the best I can find. There a’nt nothing but weeds about the old place, an’ withered at that.”
“So much the better: I want them a trifle withered. These will do – colour, shape – just the thing. Here I arrange them in a little bunch, and tie it to this hat. Fix them, as if the clasp confined them in their place. Be smart, my man; and make a neat thing of it!” The trooper plied his fingers with all the plastic ingenuity in his power; and, in a few seconds of time, a somewhat ragged bouquet was arranged, and adjusted on the beaver belonging to the black horseman – in the same place late occupied by the white gauntlet.
“Now!” said Scarthe, making a stride in the direction of the door, “Take out this hat. Place it on the head of the prisoner; and hark ye, corporal; you needn’t let him see the transformation that has been made, nor need you show it conspicuously to any one else. You understand me?”
The trooper having replied to these confidential commands with a nod and a knowing look, hurried off to execute them.
Stubbs, in charge of the guards outside, had already mounted Holtspur on horseback; where, with hands fast bound, and, for additional security, tied to the croup of the saddle, – his ankles also lashed to the stirrup leathers, and a steel-clad cuirassier, with drawn sword on each side of him – he looked like a captive left without the slightest chance of escape.
Even thus ignominiously pinioned, no air of the felon had he. His head, though bare, was not bowed; but carried proudly erect, without swagger, and with that air of tranquil indifference which distinguishes the true cavalier, even in captivity. His rough, and somewhat vagabond captors, could not help admiring that heroic courage – of which, but a few days before, they had witnessed such splendid proof.
“What a pity,” whispered one, “what a pity he’s not on our side! He’d make a noble officer of cavalry!”
“Help Master Holtspur to his hat!” tauntingly commanded Scarthe, as he clambered upon his own steed. “The wind must not be permitted to toss those waving locks too rudely. How becoming they will be upon the block! Ha! ha! ha!”
As commanded, his hat was placed upon the prisoner’s head.
The “forward,” brayed out by the bugle, drowned the satirical laugh of their leader, while the troopers, in files of two – with Scarthe at their head, Stubbs in the rear, and Holtspur near the centre – moved slowly across the lawn, leaving the mansion of Stone Dean without a master!
Volume Two – Chapter Fourteen
On perceiving that his presence could no longer be of any service to his patron, and might be detrimental to himself, Gregory Garth had betaken his body to a place of concealment – one of the garrets of Stone Dean – where, through a dormer window, he had been witness to all that transpired outside.
As the last of Scarthe’s troopers passed out through the gateway of Stone Dean, the ex-footpad came down from his hiding-place, and reappeared in front of the house.
Guided by a similar instinct, the Indian had also made himself invisible; and now reappearing at the same time, the two stood face to face; but without the ability to exchange either word or idea.
Gregory could not understand the pantomimic language of the Indian; while the latter knew not a word of English – the cavalier always conversing with him in his native tongue.
It is true that neither had much to say to the other. Both had witnessed the capture of their common patron and master. Oriole only knew that he was in the hands of enemies; while Garth more clearly comprehended the character of these enemies, and their motive for making him a prisoner.
Now that he was a prisoner, the first and simultaneous thought of both was – whether there was any chance of effecting his escape.
With the American this was an instinct; while perhaps with any other Englishman, than one of Garth’s kidney, the idea would scarce have been entertained.
But the ex-footpad, in the course of his professional career, had found his way out of too many prisons, to regard the accomplishment of such a feat as either impossible or improbable, and he at once set about reflecting upon what steps should be taken for the rescue, and release of Henry Holtspur.
Garth was sadly in need of a second head to join counsel with his own. That of the Indian, however good it might be, was absolutely of no use to him: since there was no way of getting at the ideas it contained.
“The unfort’nate creetur!” exclaimed he, after several vain attempts at a mutual understanding of signs; “he an’t no good to me – not half so much as my own old dummies: for they wur o’ some sarvice. Well, I maun try an’ manage ’ithout him.”
Indeed Gregory, whether wishing it or not, was soon reduced to this alternative: for the Indian, convinced that he could not make himself intelligible, desisted from the attempt. Following out another of his natural instincts, he parted from the ex-footpad, and glided off upon the track of the troopers – perhaps with some vague idea of being more serviceable to his master if once by his side again.
“The dummy’s faithful to him as a hound,” muttered Gregory, seeing the Indian depart; “same as my ole clo’ pals war to me. Sir Henry ha’ did ’im a sarvice some time, I dar say – as he does everybody whenever he can. Now, what’s to be done for him?”
The footpad stood for some minutes in a reflecting attitude.
“They’ve ta’en him up to Bulstrode, whar they’re quartered. No doubt about that. They won’t keep him there a longish time. They mean no common prison to hold him. Newgate, or the Tower – one o’ the two are sure o’ bein’ his lodging afore the morrow night?
“What chance o’ a rescue on the road? Ne’er a much, I fear. Dang seize it! my dummies wouldn’t do for that sort o’ thing. There’ll go a whole troop o’ these kewreseers along wi’ him? No doubt o’t.
“I wonder if they’ll take him up the day? Maybe they woant; an’ if they doant, theer mout be a chance i’ the night. I wish I had some one to help me with a good think.
“Hanged if I kin believe ole Dancey to be a treetur. ’Tan’t possible, after what he ha’ sayed to me, no later than yesterday mornin’. No, ’tan’t possible. He ha’ know’d nothin’ ’bout this bizness; and it be all the doin’s o’ that devil’s get o’ a Walford.
“I’ll go see Dancey. I’ll find out whether he had a hand in’t or no. If no, then he’ll do summat to help me; and maybe that daughter o’ his’ll do summat? Sartin she will. If my eyes don’t cheat me, the girl’s mad after Sir Henry – mad as a she hare in March time.
“I’ll go to Dancey’s this very minnit. I’ve another errand in that same direction; an’ I kin kill two birds with the one stooan. Cuss the whey-faced loon Walford! If I doant larrup him, as long as I can find a hard spot inside his ugly skin. Augh!”
And winding up his soliloquy with the aspirated exclamation, he re-entered the house – as if to prepare for his proposed visit to the cottage of Dancey.
Although he had promised himself to start on the instant, it was a good half hour before he took his departure from Stone Dean. The larder lay temptingly open – as also the wine-cellar; and although the captors of Henry Holtspur had foraged freely upon both, the short time allowed them for ransacking had prevented their making a clear sweep of the shelves. The ex-footpad, therefore, found sufficient food left to furnish him with a tolerable breakfast, and wine enough to wash it down.
In addition to the time spent in appeasing his appetite, there was another affair that occupied some twenty minutes longer. In his master’s bedroom – and other apartments that had not been entered by the cuirassiers – there by a number of valuable articles of a portable kind. These, that might also be said to be now ownerless, were of course no longer safe – even within the house. Any thief might enter, and carry them away under his cloak.
The man, who made this reflection, was not one to leave such chattels unsecured; and procuring a large bag, he thrust into it, silver cups, and candlesticks, with several other costly articles of luxe, dress, and armour – one upon top of the other – until the sack was filled to the mouth. Hoisting it on his shoulders, he marched out of the house; and, after carrying the spoil to some distance among the shrubbery, he selected for it a place of concealment.
As this was an act in which the ci-devant footpad was an adept, he bestowed the property in such a manner, that the sharpest eye might have passed within six feet without perceiving it.
It is not justice to Gregory to say that he was stealing this treasure. He was merely secreting it, against the return of its owner. But it would be equally untrue to assert, that, while hiding the bag among the bushes, his mind did not give way to some vague speculation as to the chances of a reversion.
Perhaps it occurred to him that in the event of Holtspur never returning to Stone Dean, – or never being again seen by him, Garth – the contents of that sack would be some compensation for the loss of his beloved master.
Certainly some such thought flitted vaguely through his brain at the moment; though it could not have taken the shape of a wish: for in the very next instant he took his departure from Stone Dean – eagerly bent on an errand, which, if successful, would annihilate all hope of that vaguely contemplated reversion.
As may be surmised from his soliloquised speeches, his route lay direct to the dwelling of Dick Dancey; and in due time he arrived within sight of this humble abode.
Before coming out into the slight clearing that surrounded it, he observed some one staggering off upon the opposite side. He only caught a glimpse of this person – who in the next instant disappeared among the trees – but in that glimpse Garth identified the individual. It was the woodman Walford – who, from the way he was tracking it, appeared to be in a state of intoxication.
Garth comprehending the cause, came easily to this conclusion: and making no further pause – except to ascertain that the woodman was continuing his serpentine promenade – passed on towards the cottage.
He had made a correct guess as to Walford’s condition: for at that moment the woodman was perhaps as drunk as he had ever been in is life. How he came to get into this state will be made clear, by giving in brief detail some incidents that had transpired since his departure from Stone Dean – in which he and his coadjutor Dancey had been the chief actors.
It was still only the earliest dawn of morning when the brace of worthies, returning home after their night’s stable work, entered under the shadows of Wapsey’s Wood; but there was light enough to show that the steps of neither were as steady as they should have been. Both kept repeatedly stumbling against the trees; and once Walford went head foremost into a pool of muddy water – from which he emerged with his foul complexion still fouler in appearance.
The rain, which had rendered the path slippery, might have accounted for this unsteadiness in the steps of the two foresters. But there was also observable in their speech an obliquity, which could not have been caused by the rain, but was clearly the consequence of exposure to a more potent fluid.
Dancey conversed glibly and gleefully – interlarding his speech with an occasional spell of chuckling laughter. He had come away perfectly satisfied with the proceedings of the night; the proceeds of which – a fistful of silver – he repeatedly pulled out of his pocket, and held up to the dim light – tossing it about to assure himself that it was the real coin of the realm that chinked between his fingers.
Walford’s palm seemed not to have been so liberally “greased;” but for all that he was also in high spirits. Something besides his perquisites had put him in a good humour with himself; though he did not impart the secret of this something to his companion. It was not altogether the contents of the stone jar which he had abstracted from the cellars of Stone Dean; though it might have been this that was causing him to talk so thickly, and stumble so frequently upon the path.
There was a stimulant to his joy more exciting than the spirit he had imbibed out of the bottle. It was the prospect of proximate ruin to the man, whose bread he had been just eating, and whose beer he had been drinking.
It was by no means clear to him how this ruin would be brought about. His new patron had not given him so much as a hint of the use he intended making of that night’s work. But, dull as was the brain of the brute Walford, he knew that something would follow likely to rid him of his rival; and this, too, without any further risk, or exertion, on his part. Both the danger and the trouble of avenging himself – for he felt vengeful towards Holtspur – were not only taken out of his hands, but he was also promised a handsome reward for his easy and willing service. This was the real cause of his secret glee: at the moment heightened by the repeated potations in which he had been indulging.
On arriving at the cottage of his companion, it was not to be expected that Walford, in this state of feeling, would pass without looking in. Nor was Dancey in the mind to let him pass: for it so chanced that the jar of Hollands, which the younger woodman had abstracted from the cellars of Stone Dean, was carried under the skirt of his doublet, and Dancey knew that it was not yet empty.
The challenge of the old deer-stealer, to enter his cottage and finish the gin, was readily responded to by his confrère; and both, staggering inside the hut, flung themselves into a couple of rush-bottomed chairs. Walford, uncorking the “grey beard,” placed it upon the table; and, tin cups having been procured, the two woodmen continued the carouse, which their homeward scramble had interrupted.
It had now got to be daylight; and the beautiful Betsey, who had been astir long before sunrise, was summoned to attend upon them.
Neither cared for eating. The larder of Stone Dean had spoiled the appetites of both; while its cellar had only sharpened their craving for drink.
At first Walford scarce regarded the chill reception extended to him by the daughter of his host. He was too much elated at the prospect – of being soon disembarrassed of his dreaded rival – to pay attention to the frowns of his mistress. At that moment he believed himself in a fair way of becoming master of the situation.
By little and little, however, his jealous misgivings began to rise into the ascendant – mastering even the potent spirit of the juniper.
A movement which Bet had made towards the door – where she stood looking wistfully out, as if expecting some one – forcibly arrested Walford’s attention; and, notwithstanding the presumed restraint of her father’s presence, he broke out in a strain of resentful recrimination.
“Da-ang thee!” he exclaimed, angrily blurting out the phrase, “Thee be a’ stannin’ in that door for no good. I wonder thee allows it, Dick Dancey?”
“Eh! lad – hic-hic-ough! – what is’t, Wull? Say Bets’! what ha’ ye – hic-hic-ough – eh?”
“She be danged! An’ thee be a old fool, Dick – to let her go on so wi’ that fellow.”
“Eh, Wull? Wha’ fella – who ye meean, lad? – hic-cuff!”
“She know who I mean – she know well enough, wi’ all her innocent looks. Ha! He’ll make a – of her, if he han’t did it a’ready.”
“Father! will you listen to this language?” cried Bet, turning in from the door, and appealing to her natural protector against the vile term which her drunken suitor had applied to her. “It isn’t the first time he has called me by that name. Oh, father! don’t let him say it again!”
“Your father ’ll find out some day that it be only the truth,” muttered Walford doggedly.
“Troos!” repeated Dancey, with a maudlin stare, “Troos – what is’t, lad? – what is’t, Betsey, gurl?”
“He called me a – ,” answered the girl, reluctantly repeating the opprobrious epithet.
“He did! called you a – , Betsey? If he called ye th’-th’-that, I’ll sm-a-a-ash him into faggots!”
As the woodman uttered this characteristic threat, he attempted to raise himself into an upright attitude – apparently with the intention of carrying it into execution.
The attempt proved a failure; for, after half-regaining his legs, the intoxicated deer-stealer sank back into his chair – the “rungs” of which bent and cracked under his ponderous weight, as if about to part company with each other.
“Ee-s!” tauntingly continued the accuser, gaining confidence by the helplessness of Old Dick – otherwise dreaded by him. “Thee deserves to be called it! Thee be all I say – a – ”
“You hear him, father? He has said it again!”
“Said what – what, Bets, gurl?”
“That I’m a – ”
And Betsey once more repeated the offensive word, this time pronouncing it with fuller emphasis.
The second appeal called forth a more energetic response. This time Dancey’s attempt to get upon his feet was more successful.
Balancing himself against the back of his great arm-chair, he cried out: —
“Wull Walford! Thee be a villain! How dar’ thee call my daughter – a – a – hic-cock? Goo out o’ my house this minute; or if thee doant – hic-coo – if thee doant, I’ll split thy skull like a withy! Get thee goo-oo-oone!”
“I’ll do jest that!” answered Walford, sulkily rising from his chair, and scowling resentfully both on father and daughter. “I ha’ got a house o’ my own to go to; an’ dang me, if I doant take along wi’ me what be my own!”
Saying this, he whipped the stone jar from the table, stuck the cork into it; and placing it once more under his skirt, strode out of the deer-stealer’s dwelling.
“Da-ang thee, Dick Dancey!” he shouted back, after stepping over the threshold. “Thee be-est an old fool – that’s what thee be! An’ as for thee,” he added, turning fiercely towards Bet, “maybe thee hast seen thy fine fancy – for the last time. Hoora! I’ve did that this night, ’ll put iron bars atween thee an’ him. Dang thee, thou – ”
And once more repeating the insulting epithet, the vile brute broke through the flimsy fence, and went reeling away into the woods. It was at this moment that his receding figure came under the eyes of Gregory Garth, just then approaching the cottage from the opposite direction.
“What be that he say ’bout iron bars?” inquired Dancey, slightly sobered by the unpleasant incident. “Who be he threatening, gurl?”
“I can’t say, father,” replied Bet, telling a white lie. “I think he don’t know himself what he says. He is the worse for drink.”
“That he be, ha! ha! – E-es – hic-coo – he must be full o’t – that hol-hol-lands he had up there at the old house – hic-coo! that ha’ done ’im up. The lad han’t got much o’ a head for drink. He be easy, to get over-c-c-come. Ha! ha! ha! I b’lieve Betsy, gurl, I’ve been a drinkin’ m’self? Never mind! Be all right after I ha’ a wink i’ the old arm-ch-ch-air. So here goo-go-es!”
With this wind-up, the deer-stealer let himself down into the great beechwood chair – as easily as his unmanageable limbs would allow him – and, in less than ten seconds’ time, his snoring proved that he was asleep.
