Leaning with both his hands on the table he thrust his rugged face and blood-shot eyes close to mine.
His moustachios bristled, his beard trembled.
'Hark ye, sirrah!' he muttered, with sullen emphasis, 'be content! I have my suspicions.

And if it were not for my lady's orders I would put a knife into you, fair or foul, this very night.

You would lie snug outside, instead of inside, and I do not think anyone would be the worse.

But as it is, be content.

Keep a still tongue; and when you turn your back on Cocheforet to-morrow keep it turned.' 'Tut! tut!' I said--but I confess that I was a little out of countenance.