Short Fiction by P. G. Wodehouse (me reader .txt) 📕

sun was pouring through the barred window when he was awoken by the entrance of a gigantic figure bearing food and drink.

He recognized him as one of the scurvy knaves who had dined at the bottom of the room the night before⁠—a vast, beetle-browed fellow with a squint, a mop of red hair, and a genius for silence. To Agravaine’s attempts to engage him in conversation he replied only with grunts, and in a short time left the room, closing and locking the door behind him.

He was succeeded at dusk by another of about the same size and ugliness, and with even less conversational elan. This one did not even grunt.

Small-talk, it seemed, was not an art cultivated in any great measure by the lower orders in the employment of Earl Dorm.

The next day passed without incident. In the morning the strabismic plug-ugly with the red hair brought him food and drink, while in the evening the non-grunter did the honours. It was a peaceful life, but tending towards monotony, and Agravaine was soon in the frame of mind which welcomes any break in the daily round.

He was fortunate enough to get it.

He had composed himself for sleep that night, and was just dropping comfortably off, when from the other side of the door he heard the sound of angry voices.

It was enough to arouse him. On the previous night silence had reigned. Evidently something out of the ordinary was taking place.

He listened intently and distinguished words.

“Who was it I did see thee coming down the road with?”

“Who was it thou didst see me coming down the road with?”

“Aye, who was it I did see thee coming down the road with?”

“Who dost thou think thou art?”

“Who do I think that I am?”

“Aye, who dost thou think thou art?”

Agravaine could make nothing of it. As a matter of fact, he was hearing the first genuine crosstalk that had ever occurred in those dim, pre-music-hall days. In years to come dialogue on these lines was to be popular throughout the length and breadth of Great Britain. But till then it had been unknown.

The voices grew angrier. To an initiated listener it would have been plain that in a short while words would be found inadequate and the dagger, that medieval forerunner of the slapstick, brought into play. But to Agravaine, all inexperienced, it came as a surprise when suddenly with a muffled thud two bodies fell against the door. There was a scuffling noise, some groans, and then silence.

And then with amazement he heard the bolt shoot back and a key grate in the keyhole.

The door swung open. It was dark outside, but Agravaine could distinguish a female form, and, beyond, a shapeless mass which he took correctly to be the remains of the two plug-uglies.

“It is I, Yvonne,” said a voice.

“What is it? What has been happening?”

“It was I. I set them against each other. They both loved one of the kitchen-maids. I made them jealous. I told Walt privily that she had favoured Dickon, and Dickon privily that she loved Walt. And now⁠—”

She glanced at the shapeless heap, and shuddered. Agravaine nodded.

“No wedding bells for her,” he said, reverently.

“And I don’t care. I did it to save you. But come! We are wasting time. Come! I will help you to escape.”

A man who has been shut up for two days in a small room is seldom slow off the mark when a chance presents itself of taking exercise. Agravaine followed without a word, and together they crept down the dark staircase until they had reached the main hall. From somewhere in the distance came the rhythmic snores of scurvy knaves getting their eight hours.

Softly Yvonne unbolted a small door, and, passing through it, Agravaine found himself looking up at the stars, while the great walls of the castle towered above him.

“Goodbye,” said Yvonne.

There was a pause. For the first time Agravaine found himself examining the exact position of affairs. After his sojourn in the guarded room, freedom looked very good to him. But freedom meant parting from Yvonne.

He looked at the sky and he looked at the castle walls, and he took a step back towards the door.

“I’m not so sure I want to go,” he said.

“Oh, fly! Fly, Sir Knight!” she cried.

“You don’t understand,” said Agravaine. “I don’t want to seem to be saying anything that might be interpreted as in the least derogatory to your father in any way whatever, but without prejudice, surely he is just a plain, ordinary brigand? I mean it’s only a question of a ransom? And I don’t in the least object⁠—”

“No, no, no.” Her voice trembled. “He would ask no ransom.”

“Don’t tell me he kidnaps people just as a hobby!”

“You don’t understand. He⁠—No, I cannot tell you. Fly!”

“What don’t I understand?”

She was silent. Then she began to speak rapidly. “Very well. I will tell you. Listen. My father had six children, all daughters. We were poor. We had to stay buried in this out-of-the-way spot. We saw no one. It seemed impossible that any of us should ever marry. My father was in despair. Then he said, ‘If we cannot get to town, the town must come to us.’ So he sent my sister Yseult to Camelot to ask the king to let us have a knight to protect us against a giant with three heads. There was no giant, but she got the knight. It was Sir Sagramore. Perhaps you knew him?”

Agravaine nodded. He began to see daylight.

“My sister Yseult was very beautiful. After the first day Sir Sagramore forgot all about the giant, and seemed to want to do nothing else except have Yseult show him how to play cat’s cradle. They were married two months later, and my father sent my sister Elaine to Camelot to ask for a knight to protect us against a wild unicorn.”

“And who bit?” asked Agravaine, deeply interested.

“Sir Malibran of Devon. They were married within three weeks, and my father⁠—I can’t go on. You