The companions trotted from tavern to tavern without misadventure; but the wolf-bell had long tolled for retiring in the belfry of Condé when they returned each one to his own den.
VII
As he was putting the key into the lock the wheelwright thought he heard a shout of mocking laughter. He turned, and saw in the darkness a man six feet high, who again burst out laughing.
"What are you laughing at?" said he, crossly.
"At what? Why, at the aplomb with which you boasted a little while ago that you would dare measure yourself against the devil."
"Why not, if he challenged me?"
"Very well, my master, bring your clubs. I challenge you!" said Mynheer van Belzébuth, for it was himself. Roger recognized him by a certain odour of sulphur that always hangs about his majesty.
"What shall the stake be?" he asked resolutely.
"Your soul?"
"Against what?"
"Whatever you please."
The wheelwright reflected.
"What have you there in your sack?"
"My spoils of the week."
"Is the soul of Patemostre among them?"
"To be sure! and those of five other golfers; dead, like him, without confession."
"I play you my soul against that of Paternostre."
"Done!"
[210]
