The corridor was devoid of illumination.

The porter struck a match and held it close to the panel of a door under which a thread of light streamed.
"This is it, Herr," he bawled, so loudly that Maurice started.
"There was no need of waking the dead to tell me," he growled.
The door opened, and before Maurice could brace himself--for the interior of the room made all plain to him--he was violently pushed over the threshold on to his knees.

He was up in an instant.

The room was filled with soldiers, foot soldiers of the king, so it seemed.
"What the devil is this ?" he demanded, brushing his knees and cursing himself because he had not brought his Colt when fate had put it almost in his hand.
"It is a banquet, young man.

We were waiting for the guest of honor." Maurice turned to the speaker, and saw a medium-sized man with gray hair and a frosty stubble of a mustache.