Poer stared up, the windows and doors were tightly shuttered, no sound except the moaning of the wind which rolled the mist and battered, almost with malicious glee, some loosened shutter. Poer drew his dagger and walked down the centre of the street, keeping clear of the dirt and ordure piled outside each door as well as the rank, fetid sewer which ran down the middle. He saw a shadow move in one of the doorways and a white, skeletal arm shot out, followed by the whine of a beggar.

'Ah, Monsieur, ayez pitiй, ayez pitiй.' Poer showed his long cruel dagger, the man disappeared and the beggar's voice faded.

Poer walked on cautiously. There was something wrong, something which had just happened but he could not place it. He was too tired, too anxious. He did not want to be arrested as a spy, to be dragged on a hurdle to the gallows at Montfauзon, strapped to a wheel and whirled naked whilst red-hooded executioners carefully broke each of his limbs with their wicked, jagged iron bars. Poer shivered and, holding his dagger before him, left the alleyway. He felt better now. He was at the crossroads, massive lighted braziers were placed here every evening by the civic authorities and a huge tallow candle fixed in the niche before the statue of the saint of that particular quarter, such light and heat drove off the icy mist and reassured Poer.

He whirled to his left as he heard the clack of wood on stone but only the old beggar from the tavern came out of the mist, whining and dragging himself across the cobbles in front of Poer. The spy ignored him and started to cross the square, the clatter increased in speed and Poer suddenly realised what was wrong, the old man had left a few seconds before him yet he had reached the top of the alleyway. Poer hesitated, turned but it was too late, the old man hurled into him, trapping his legs and Poer, stumbling over him, his hands caught in the folds of his cloak, fell, a sickening thud as his head hit the sharp cobbles.