André drew back like a man taken unawares as though he would avoid a blow. He stood motionless for a moment to gather his dazed thoughts. A silence fell over us like the hollowness of an empty tomb, with only the long strained cawing of a crow overhead to break the tenseness.
Then a clearness came into his eyes and with it a hardness about his mouth and jaws. He took one step forward and blazed a look of hate at our enemy.
“I know now, De Marsac,” he said, “why you have come among us. You planned this from the beginning.”
That other shifted his gaze and pointed to where the old Count of Gramont lay.
“You understand what this means?” he asked with a glare in his eyes.
“Better than you imagine,” answered my brother, with his voice lifting high among the trees. “By foul means young Charles of Gramont—that man’s son—was lured into a snare and carried off, a prisoner of him you choose to call your King. By fouler means still you crept into our house like a viper under pretense of hospitality. You picked a quarrel with me the moment you arrived, thinking you would kill me in the fight. You were thwarted in that. You tried to murder Henri there in the woods.” He cast a look in the direction of the old Count. A smile of scorn curled about his mouth when he faced De Marsac again. “The only plan of yours to succeed was in the slaying of an old man. Pshaw! I never dreamed a human being could stoop so low!”
A flush of wrath colored De Marsac’s face, but slowly died out to a dead white. With his eyes shifting and shining, I thought with murder in them, he flouted my brother once again.
“You are wasting words, my friend La Mar,” he sneered. “The whole brood of you is like a dying candle. It is hardly worth the snuffing out.”
My brother heard this with the coolness and firmness of a rock. When the last syllable of De Marsac’s scorn faded in the air, André planted his feet squarely on the ground. Then, with his open palm, he struck that other a stinging blow across the face.
“You have brought your sword, De Marsac,” he said in an even voice. “By good fortune I also have brought mine.” Here he laid his hand upon the pommel. “We were interrupted once. We can continue——”
Before he could end the sentence the steel was in the air. Both men in their eagerness stepped in close to each other. The blades rang out as they crossed up to the hilts. They both drew back again and made a wicked exchange of thrust and parry. They played fast and furiously at arm’s length. They shifted swiftly on the loose ground. Then, after De Marsac missed his aim at a point above the heart, André touched him lightly with the point of his sword upon the ear.
“Your armor, De Marsac,” he cried with a mocking laugh, “makes it difficult. To kill you I must strike you in the neck or face.”
De Marsac, at the first blood, had drawn back. He was gathering his sword in his hand for another trial, when a dark shadow came towards us from behind the trees. It was the figure of a man with an oaken staff in his hand. And before any of us could stir he called out in a deep voice as though he was applauding the stroke he had just seen the single word: “Bravo!”
I gave a little start, for the suddenness of his appearance surprised me. And as though they had heard a command both my brother and De Marsac lowered their blades and gazed, one with curiosity, the other with alarm at the stranger.
He was clad entirely in black from the close-fitting cap upon his head to the toes of his fine leather boots. His doublet encircled his chest with the tightness of a drum and was of a rich cloth, durable but severely plain. As far as I could see he was without weapons of any sort save the knotted staff which he had in his hand.
He was what you might call of medium height and build. But the longer you looked at him, the more you grew aware of some hidden strength that lay within. His face was square and large boned and of a ruggedness of color that bespoke a life in the open. His eyes were deep set in their sockets. When he looked at you the steadiness of his gaze was midway between a frown and a scowl. He moved like a man who was accustomed to time his actions to the moment, but withal with such lightness and ease that constantly reminded you that, at the slightest need, he could spring forward with the litheness of a tiger and strike with the swiftness of lightning.
He remained for a while standing looking from my brother to De Marsac. Then, of a sudden he laughed. But it was a laugh that had no mirth in it but which rang like a mocking echo through the trees.
“Still at your old tricks, I see, De Marsac,” he said as he advanced. “You have profited little from the lesson that I so lately taught.”
De Marsac’s hand shook. He rested his sword with the point upon the ground. He shifted uneasily, glancing in one direction then another. The flush on his face died out to the whiteness of parchment.
He breathed. “Ah!” he cried, but his voice choked. “You!”
The man in black folded his arms across his chest and let his club swing lightly from between his fingers.
“Yes,” he said. “We have a little argument to settle between us. You will remember we began one but never finished.”
De Marsac flashed a look of hate at the man.
“I have not done with him there,” he said, pointing at André. “After this——”
The stranger grinned and raised his brows.
“From what I have seen, De Marsac, there may be no ‘after this’,” he said. “You know how disappointed I would feel to see you die!—that is by hands other than my own! Would you have me call you a coward in the presence of these witnesses?”
“‘Coward’?” echoed our enemy. “You can’t say that. You know I fought you like a man until——”
The stranger mocked him again.
“Yes,” he said. “You did. That is—until you ran away!”
De Marsac’s eyes sought the ground. He was like a rat that is cornered. A heavy frown crossed his brows and he ground his teeth in rage.
“Come!” The man in black coaxed him. “I shall give you every advantage. You have a sword there in your hand. I have only an oaken staff. Could I offer you easier terms?”
There was no way out of it. This our enemy saw. Like a man who will risk all on one cast, without a sign of warning, he sprang with all his quickness with his sword pointed outwards at his foe. So fast was he that I feared he would kill him on the spot. But the man in black must have expected such a move. As lithely as a cat he stepped to one side. De Marsac, with no object to bring him to a stop, plunged furiously headlong and fell stumbling to the turf.
It was as ridiculous a situation as I ever saw. My brother and I, forgetful of the seriousness of the moment, let out loud peals of laughter. The stranger hardly stirred and that only to follow his enemy guardedly with his eyes. De Marsac was filled with shame and wrath that he had been so smoothly outwitted. He raised himself cautiously on his hands and knees and looked around. Then, seeing that he was not threatened, he sprang again to his feet and faced his foe.
There followed a single exchange that I shall not forget as long as I shall draw the breath of life. De Marsac raised his sword on high, as you would a battle-ax, and with all the force he could summon started a blow. If it had ever reached its mark, it would have split the stranger’s skull in twain. But the man in black was this time even more alert than he had been before. With a quick step he jumped in close to his foeman’s body. He raised the oaken staff over his head. He caught the blade on it as it descended. The edge of the steel must have cut deep into the wood, for it held there as firmly as though it were in a vise. A quick twist of the wrist and it was torn from De Marsac’s grasp and flew twirling and spinning in the air. Like a bird that has been pierced by an arrow it came down and clattered to the earth.
The man in black showed no more concern than if he were plucking a flower from a field. He went over and took the sword in his hand. He ran his fingers along the blade and wiped away the clay that had stuck to it where it had fallen. Then with the utmost deliberation, he snapped it across his knee and tossed the pieces contemptuously at De Marsac’s feet.
“I could crush the life out of you now, De Marsac,” he said, “with this club of mine. Or for a second time I might let you go.” He hesitated as though he was thinking and with a snap of his fingers said, “Pshaw! What are you to me but a worm crawling on the ground.”
De Marsac uttered not a word. He stood with his arms at his side, his body swaying slightly waiting for a new turn in the affair. The man in black took to pacing up and down. For a moment he was deep in thought as though he had forgotten our existence. Then he looked suddenly up and with heavy brows addressed our enemy.
“Go back to your King, De Marsac,” he growled, and with a sweep of his hand as commanding as an emperor. “Tell him that I defy him to his teeth. Tell him that before the year’s end I shall sweep him from his throne.”
De Marsac frowned. He glared at the stranger with hate and anger in his eyes. Then, hesitating with every step, he made slowly towards the trees. When he felt himself secure, he faced us and raised his arm on high.
“It is you who will be blotted from the earth,” he cried. “Before the year’s end we shall meet again. We shall see then who will have the upper hand.”
With that he disappeared among the trees.
The man in black continued his pacing up and down upon the ground. What André and I had seen and heard cautioned us to keep our peace. At length he stopped and raised a finger in warning.
“I caution you,” he said, “that that fellow will be back again. He’ll scheme and plan until he gets revenge. That’s the kind of vermin the King of France sends out to stir up trouble among the Norman barons. You did wrong to let him cross the threshold of your house.”
Once more he paced to and fro. No doubt he was thinking some matter to the bottom. We stood open-mouthed, wondering at his confidence and his bearing. The next time he halted it was of another matter that he spoke.
“The heir of Gramont is gone,” he said. “He was taken a prisoner down the valley of the Loire. Is it to your interest to have him back?”
“He was like a brother to us,” said André, “and the son of my father’s warmest friend. We would gladly give our lives for him. I am sure in like predicament he would do the same for us.”
The man’s eyes lit up with a kind of fire. His jaws tightened. By the flicker of a smile that played about his mouth I was sure he was pleased with André’s answer.
“The old spirit of the Norman race is with you yet,” he said, “tough and stubborn to the last. It is a good sign. If you will bring Charles of Gramont back, let one of you go down the valley of the Loire. It will be a dangerous undertaking, for you will be among the enemies of your country. Above all, take heed of what you see and hear. Beyond Angers the open territory is dominated by a man called the Abbot of Chalonnes. It will be your business to find him. And it will be he who will return to you the lad you seek—young Charles.”
We looked at each other, André and I.
“It may be a fool’s errand,” remarked my brother. “How will the Abbot know?—what sign or token shall we give?”
The man in black spun on his heels like a top. He said nothing, only ripped open his doublet wide across his chest. To our amazement we saw that underneath instead of a shirt he wore the tanned hide of an animal’s skin with the hair turned outward. With his hand he reached down and from under his belt brought forth a fine yellow plume such as great leaders wear on their helmets on the field of battle.
The Arrow Struck With a Click
“Do you know this?” he cried, holding it before us.
“It is the tail of a leopard made into a plume,” said André.
“It will be enough, then,” he said shortly, “to say to the Abbot of Chalonnes that you have seen this.”
He made to go.
“One word more,” called André after him. “Is it too much for us to know your name?”
The stranger stopped on the fringe of the woods. He turned and looked back.
“My father sits upon the English throne,” he said. “I am known as the Black Prince!”
Slowly and sadly, with the body of the old Lord of Gramont borne tenderly among us, we wended our way towards our home. We had much to talk about, but in our grief we held our tongues. We passed each other with bowed heads and sorrowful faces. There was a gloom about the place like the coldness of death.
We laid the old warrior away in the tomb of his fathers. In the evening we sat alone together—André and I—in the light of the candles. The early September day had been unusually warm and the casements were flung wide. The servants had long since gone to bed. There was scarcely a sound except our own breathing.
“I must go, Henri, to the Abbot of Chalonnes,” said my brother, breaking the silence. “There must be no more delay.”
“If you go,” I answered, “De Marsac will appear again. There will be no one left to defend the estate.”
André bit his lips but did not answer. He walked across the room and stood at the side of the great oaken table in the centre of the room. I arose, too, and stood opposite him.
“Let us toss for it, André,” said I taking a newly-minted groat from my pocket. “If it fall heads, you go, shields, I go.”
I flung the piece in the air. It fell, but fell on its edge and rolled down from the table across the room. I was about to go after it when an arrow came floating through the open window. It struck with a click and fastened its point in the hard wood. Upon the shaft, wound with a tight cord, was tied a small piece of parchment.
André drew back.
“Another enemy!” he cried. “Will there never be an end?”
“No,” said I. “You are wrong. This time it is a friend.”
With feverish fingers I drew the arrow from the wood and unrolled the parchment. With a kind of inward triumph I spread it open before my brother’s eyes. At the bottom there was drawn the figure of a leopard, very roughly to be sure, but still as plain as day. Above it in a scrawl so crude that it could hardly be deciphered were these words:
“Send the lad!”
“There, André!” said I. “Will this decide it?”
My brother waved his hand in the air like a man who yields to the will of Fate and moved across the room.
“I stay,” he said, and sank into the nearest chair.
That night I slept but little. The excitement of the day had been too much for me. The old Count’s death, the treachery of De Marsac, and the appearance in our parts of so great and widely known a man as the Black Prince—all this set my brain in a swirl and kindled in it a kind of fire. Besides, too, there was the prospect of the long journey that lay before me, visions of the strange characters I would meet, the odds and ends of places through which I should surely pass, and by no means least of all, the snares and pitfalls that were certain to be a menace to my unwary feet.
At the first grey of dawn I was up from my bed. As quickly as I was able I dressed myself in the same clothes that I had worn on the day of the boar-hunt—a jerkin of strong sewed leather, a doublet that would keep out both wind and rain, breeches of soft deer-hide, knitted stockings of our home-spun wool, a pair of shoes that were oiled and worked until they were as pliant as the skin upon my hand—plain clothes, but strong and lasting, clothes that would draw no comment either for their richness or their meanness. And as a last touch I set a little cap with a feather in it upon my head.
I breakfasted on a cold meat-pie that was left over from the night before. All was quiet about the house. I thought that as yet there was no one stirring. But when I walked into the open to my surprise there was André coming from the stables, leading a horse on either hand—his own and the one I was accustomed to call mine.
“I will ride with you as far as the brow of the hill,” he said, and that in a voice that was almost at a breaking point.
I would have answered but a lump as big as an apple rose to my throat, so that without a word I took the reins that he offered me and swung into the saddle.
We started down the road at a slow canter. The freshness of the morning air sent the blood tingling through my veins. The brightness of the sun shone on every dewy leaf. The easy motion of the horse had a charm of its own. But with all this I could not scatter the cloud of seriousness that had come between us.
Presently we fell into an easy talk, but it was a talk that hid rather than revealed what lay deepest in our bosoms. Not a word was spoken of the happenings of the past week nor of the mission I was on until after more than an hour’s ride. We came to the crest of the hill that rises southward from our home. Here we slowly gathered in the reins. We halted our horses and sat side by side for a moment in silence. Then André drew a long breath and extended his hand.
“Good-by, Henri,” he said, and added in a faltering voice, “You will come safe home to me, I know.”
That was all. I took his hand in mine. Our eyes met. But I had to turn mine quickly aside again.
“I shall do my best,” I replied. It wasn’t much of an answer, but it was as brave a speech as I was able to bring over my lips. The truth is my tongue failed me. When I looked up again a little wistful smile lay in the corners of my brother’s mouth and he was drawing in the reins to turn about.
We parted. I urged the roan forward and started off down the other side of the hill. Now and then the impulse rose within me to turn and wave a last farewell, but ever as it did, new strength came to me and I set my face resolutely forward.
The horse broke into a loose trot. Faster and faster I went over the uneven road. More than once I thought I would be pitched headlong from my mount. I entered a sharp bend in the hills. As I turned the horse’s head the tall trees stood between me and my home like a great black wall. Within an hour or two I realized that I was treading on new ground. Yet the further I went, the freer I felt. I was like a bird loosed from long confinement in a cage. The joy of exploration was lending me fresh thoughts and my dependence on those at home was shaken gradually from me like the last threads of an old garment.
The highway was like a country in itself. It had its inhabitants and its customs, its laws and traditions. Its population, too, began to strike me as singularly fanciful. Traveler after traveler passed me, the one on the heels of the other. But all of them of interest. Indeed so different were they from one another that I was soon set speculating and wondering what manner of life they led and above all where in the world could they be going.
The first person worth mentioning whom I came across was a scrivener. That is to say, one of those wandering scholars—a man skilled in the art of writing. He was sitting on a stone near a little brook that ran bubbling from the cool of the trees. He was munching at some bread and cheese as contentedly as you could wish. Alongside of him in the grass lay a long round bundle wrapped in a dirty cloth. Beside this lay a handful of quills and a horn in which he carried his ink. His appearance was nothing to boast of. His forehead and hands were streaked and smeared black and a full week’s growth of beard covered his face. And the worst thing about him was his clothes—an ill-fitting suit of velvet of dark blue, spotted and ragged, which some one had given him.
At the first sight of me his jaw fell agape. The bread which he had just stuffed into his mouth fell in crumbs over his knees. His eyes glared at me as though they would start from their sockets. I thought a kind of fright had overtaken him, but in the next second he jumped to his feet with the lightness of a hare and laid his hand over his heart in a way that reminded me strongly of De Marsac. Then he swept the ground with his soiled cap and bowed.
“My Lord,” he said with the utmost seriousness, “I am alone. I lack company. Will you be gracious enough to dine with me?”
At that he straightened up and smiled.
“I am no lord,” I answered with a twinkle in my eye. “Nor am I hungry. I have a long ride ahead of me and must be on my way.”
With that I made to be off. But the scrivener seemed to have no hearing. He clapped his cap upon his head and with a skip was out in the middle of the road.
“If you are not a noble,” he said with his grin spreading from ear to ear, “you ought to be. But I am sure of one thing——” He let the last words trail in the air as though he would puzzle me.
“What’s that?” I asked.
“Your horse is!” he cried. And then he bent over and laughed as though he had made the smartest remark in the world.
I was feeling uneasy. The thought came to me that I was wasting my time with a madman and the sooner I could get off from him the better.
“Well,” I replied dryly, “maybe he is. But don’t let me interrupt your meal.”
I looked down the road to let him know that I was anxious to be off. The hint was wasted, for he stepped in close to the roan and started to stroke him on the neck, muttering and mumbling to himself words of the highest praise.
He twisted his head to the one side like a bird on a perch and winked at me knowingly.
“Do you know what I’d give for this horse?” he demanded.
“He’s not for sale,” I said with some abruptness. But he went on as though I had not spoken.
“I’d give everything I have,” he burst out. “I’d give my parchment, my inkhorn and my quills. And I’d be willing to forget all I know of the art of writing, if I could call him my own!”
I almost laughed in his face.
“You’re generous, master scrivener,” said I, and once more gathered in the reins.
But he was not to be so easily shaken off. He made a pretense of great affection for the animal. He laid his cheek against its head. He took to stroking its mane. Then he looked up into my face with a cunning leer.
“Do you know,” he began slyly, “I don’t believe the horse is yours at all.”
“What!” said I. “Do you take me for a thief?”
“Ah!” he exclaimed, raising his brows. “I’ve hit a soft spot, now, haven’t I? Why, it’s true then that you gentlemen of the road are as touchy as a flock of crows.”
I was almost overcome. That I would be taken for a highwayman was far from what I had ever dreamed.
“Look here!” I called. “Take your hand from that horse. I’ll give you till I count ‘three.’ If you’re not out of the way then, I’ll ride you down.”
The scrivener paid me no more attention than he would a fly. Without taking his eyes from me, he reached into his belt and drew forth a dagger. As he held it in the air, I saw that it was of unusual value and workmanship. The blade was as thin as a blade of grass and rang to his touch like the finest steel. Besides, the haft shone with a brightness that could hardly be believed, for it was not only of the clearest silver but was set with a scattering of brilliant stones.
“Let’s start the bargaining over again, my lord,” he said. “Will you exchange your horse for this?”
I was at my wit’s end. I was sure now that he was not only a madman but a knave as well. The longer I lingered there with him, the more dangerous seemed my situation. I set my jaws in resolution. He must have noticed the expression on my face, for he reached out and grasped the bridle firmly in his hand. At the same time he held out the weapon in the hope it would strike my fancy.
“Who is the thief now, master scrivener?” I asked.
“Wouldn’t you like to have it?” he questioned with another sly wink. “It’s yours for the taking—if you will only give me your horse.”
At that he began tossing the dagger over his head and with much deftness catching it again in his hand. I sat watching him with anger swelling in my heart. Higher and higher the dagger went. The more difficult the catch, the easier it seemed to him. At length it rose far over his head, spinning and twirling like a leaf in the wind. Then a thought came to me. With one grasp I reached far out. By merest chance I caught the weapon by the hilt. I sank my heels into the horse’s flank. In his amazement the scrivener loosed his hold on the bridle and I was free from him.
Before I was out of hearing I drew the horse to a stop. I turned and saw the scrivener standing in the middle of the road. He had his hands flat over his hips and was grinning with all his might.
I held the dagger on high.
“Do you see this?” I called. “I am going to keep it until I find the man to whom it belongs.”
His answer sent the chills down my spine.
“Fine!” he shouted. “Take it to the Abbot of Chalonnes!”
The rest of that day passed pleasantly enough. To be sure, there were wayfarers whom I met. I remember most distinctly a few scattered soldiers with heavy beards who talked deep and boastingly in their throats. Then there came a barber with a satchel in his hand. He had a white curled wig on his head and a comb tucked jauntily in the side of it over his ear. No doubt he was going the rounds among his customers, the gentry of the neighborhood. By the mincing way in which he walked, the fancy lace upon his sleeves and collar, together with the display of a red waistcoat and a pair of polished silver-buckled shoes he must have thought himself equal to any doctor of Physic of the great university of Bologna.
He doffed his cap to me with some show of delicacy. He began to ask me if any great houses lay in the direction from which I had come, where he could earn a handful of groats. He told me that if there were any sick in the neighborhood, he could make them well again by the skill he had in cupping and leeching. I knew that barbers had the reputation as idle gossips, so I answered as evasively as I could. Then, when he saw that he was strumming on the wrong string, he grew bolder and more direct. He said flatly that I needed a little care myself. He invited me down from the horse. He assured me that, if I would sit on a stone on the side of the road for the space of half an hour, he would make a new man of me by the application of his art.
But my experience with the scrivener had been enough. I knew that it was best to deal with this new nuisance as deftly as I might. I first said that he looked the master of his trade in every way. At which he puffed up like a pigeon and seemed highly flattered. Then I slowly let him know that my stock of money was very low, that I could hardly reckon on a resting place for the night (which of course was true) and that I was cautioned to be careful in the expenditure of every single coin.
I might have gone further. But when my lack of money became known to him, he dropped his smile and shot a look at me that had poison in it. He picked up his satchel, grumbling and growling under his breath, and with a remark about beggars riding on horseback, quickly strode away.
The next was a fellow with a cart, or rather a wagon on two wheels. He had shafts to it and instead of a horse had fastened himself to them by a strap similar to a yoke which reached over his shoulders. He was twice the size of an ordinary man. The rolls of fat hung under his chin and across his stomach in great layers. He came along puffing and snorting and mopping the sweat from his brow. At the same time he seemed as happy as a lark, for he was whistling a light tune as merrily as could be.
He no sooner saw me than he lowered the cart on two props and disengaged himself from his harness. I was now so near that I saw that he had a kind of traveling show such as often stopped in our village in the early Spring. Only this fellow had no performing bear on a rope or a monkey or an acrobatic clown, but piled high on the cart, row after row, were small wooden cages. In each cage was a bird. Along the bottom were the parrots and then the further up they went the smaller the birds became until at the top sat perched the tiniest of wrens.
I was agog with curiosity. When I came within earshot the big fellow stepped out into the middle of the road. His smile spread the width of his broad face. He bowed to me from afar and then screwed his mouth into a knot and puffed out his cheeks. With such suddenness that it startled me he ran the gamut of a score of notes from the lowest to the highest, lingering now and then to warble and trill some of them in the most entrancing fashion.
At the first sound of the man’s whistling there was a flutter in all the cages. Before he had uttered half a dozen notes the birds began to sing. When he had no more breath and was forced to let off, they had reached a harmony that was truly surprising. The sounds rose higher and higher. It was like the early morning at home when I awoke but even more thrilling and delightful. Then, just as I approached, the fellow put his knuckle in his mouth. He blew one loud shrill blast. The birds in the next instant were as silent as the grave.
I could not help smiling. And the man himself was even more pleased than I. He stood in the road grinning like a great calf. His eyes sparkled. He was beaming with joy as though he had just performed a truly remarkable feat. He stuck his thumb under his arm and straightened himself up as proud as an emperor.
“Greetings, sir Traveler,” he cried, “from the King of the Birds.”
I drew in my horse. He took this as a sign that I was interested. He screwed up his mouth again and let out a short shrill note. Of a sudden, as though they had been waiting for it, every bird in the cages started once more to sing. They were soon at the highest point. The fellow had his head cocked on one side with his ear turned towards the cages like a music master trying to detect a false note. Then, as he did before, he put his knuckle in his mouth. He blew one quick blast and the sounds died away as quickly as though the birds had been stricken dead.
“Sir,” said the King of the Birds with a wave of his hand, “the parrot there can tell your fortune. He is like the owl, one of the wisest of birds.” To suit his action to his words he tapped the parrot on the head. He placed a box which held a number of pieces of parchment before it. The parrot bent over and with its beak tossed one of the small sheets out on the ground. The King pounced upon it and held it out before my astonished eyes.
“Unfold it, sir, and read it at your leisure,” said the man. “It may help you on your way.”
With that he bowed and stood rubbing his hands. I smiled of course at his simplicity. A sort of pity took hold of me. In bulk he was almost the size of an ox. Without doubt he was as poor as any of his birds. He was dependent for all that he got upon his ability to amuse those who fell across his path. Yet, with all that, the seriousness of the world had no resting place upon his shoulders. In his own province he was, as he claimed, as absolute as a king, and to my way of thinking far happier than any of whom I have ever heard.
I did not want to wound his feelings. With the pretext that I must be going, I leaned over and tossed a handful of small silver into his hands. At the same time I clapped my heels against the horse’s flanks and with a wave of my arm bade him “Adieu.”
I thought I had done with him. I had given him more than he had counted on, I am sure. I had no other idea but that he would gather up his cart and make his way to the nearest village. But my horse had scarcely carried me ten steps when there fell upon my ears the same whistling with which he had first greeted me. Then followed the chorus of the birds. I turned in the saddle and looked back. The great fellow was standing in the middle of the road. His hands were extended towards me. His chest was heaving like a bellows and the sweat was streaming from his forehead. For all that he was smiling like a pleased child. His little eyes were twinkling and blinking in the light of the sun. When he saw that I had turned about, he struck still higher notes and the birds with him.
I rode slowly on and on. I turned now and then to wave back at him. At each turning I saw the same figure in the middle of the road and heard the same trilling sounds. They grew fainter and fainter. The man himself grew dimmer and dimmer. At length the warbling ceased. For the last time I waved “farewell.” But as I did, there he was with his head thrown back, his thumb under his arm and one foot proudly before the other. When he realized that I would soon be out of sight he threw both arms out towards me to wish me good fortune on my way.
So it went with me. On that great highway I found myself in a new and varied world. One strange character passed after the other with each quite different from the one before. At first I thought them only the odds and ends of all humanity driving forward without aim or purpose. But after a while I had to acknowledge that of the people I met, I was the least in experience of them all. I began to make a fresh estimate of men and their manners. They soon impressed me with the thought that they knew what they were about as well as I. The only difference between them and me was that they had interests other than my own. And to cap it all a certain shrewdness warned me that if I were to continue to cope with them, I must sharpen my wits to the keenness of theirs.
I went on and on. I took time to feed my horse and eat a bite myself in the shade of the trees. The afternoon came and went. The sun was dropping behind the hills. An uneasiness took hold of me lest I be forced to lie out in the open exposed to the uncertainties of the night. It was rapidly getting dark. My uneasiness was turning into fear, when I came upon a bend in the road and behind it a broad stretch of thick woods.
I stopped and looked circumspectly around. I might have passed on, but, as I gazed, I spied a little house or cottage hidden far in among the trees. Not a soul was in sight. It seemed a place deserted. The walls were of stone and very old for they were covered with moss in patches here and there. There was a blackness about them from the dust of the road, besides, on the corners and the window-ledges they were worn with pieces knocked off. The windows themselves were hardly visible. They were matted with cobwebs and dirt so that it was scarcely possible that any light could shine through them.
An old slab of stone served as a door-step, but it was surrounded with weeds that grew waist-high even as far as the edge of the road. There was little inviting about the house. Indeed, the more I examined it, the more I felt that I should leave it as it was.
I was about to give my horse the rein when I observed a thin curl of smoke lifting lazily in the air from a chimney in the rear. I knitted my brows in surprise. I looked again to make certain. Then, with curiosity getting the better of me, I got down from the horse, led him by the bridle and tied him to the nearest tree.
I cannot tell you why I did it. I suppose it was the mystery and the strangeness about the place, but before I gave thought to the consequences, I had brushed my way through the weeds and was knocking at the antiquated door.
I drew a deep breath and stood waiting. The time seemed very long indeed. My heart began to flutter in my breast. A feeling that my actions were rash stole over me. The horse neighed. The sound struck me like a warning that I ought to let well enough alone and be further on my way. I was about to turn when I heard a board creak within. The quick shuffling of feet came to me through the door. Then there fell a silence that was like the hollowness of an empty cave.
I was curious and fearful alike. I walked back to the middle of the road. The smoke came from the chimney in a thicker volume than before. I shifted in my mind to reason out the situation. When I had considered every side of it, I laughed at my fears.
“It is only some poor peasant,” I thought, “—probably too deaf to hear.”
With my mind fixed I strode boldly back. I knocked more loudly and resolutely than before. But no sound came. I waited a moment and knocked again. The only answer was the cawing of a crow that passed soaring over my head. My impatience burst its bounds. I took the latch in my hand, thinking to rattle it, when to my surprise the door yielded to my touch. As by some magic it swung slowly open and I beheld the interior of the room.
I expected to find the place within as uninviting as it was without. A fire was burning at the far end and over it hung on a chain a pot which was bubbling and boiling and giving out a most savory odor. At the side of the wall stood a chair, but of the kind you might think belonged not in a peasant’s hut but in the palace of a king. It was of the finest make. The legs and back were curved and scrolled and gilded like new and the cushions of a velvet delicately blue. In that one flash I saw, too, a table standing in the middle of the room. The top reflected the shine of the fire, for it was polished like wax.
If I was surprised at the first glance, I was the more amazed as my eyes got accustomed to the semi-darkness of the interior. The walls, instead of being black or grimy were as white and cheerful as though they were entirely new and instead of the stone flags which I expected to find, the floor was laid in the smoothest wood.
“Whoever lives here,” I said half aloud, “has gone out for a while. I’ll take a seat. When they return, we can strike a bargain for a lodging for the night.”
To suit the purpose I shut the door. It was swinging slowly when of a sudden it was dashed past my face and struck the door-jam with a bang. The unexpectedness of it made me wink. When I opened my eyes there was a man standing before me. His brows were drawn into an ugly frown. The look on his face was of the blackness of night. His jaws were set but his lips were curled back in a snarl and his fists knotted in anger as though he was about to strike.
“Dog!” The word came from between his teeth in a hiss.
I was so taken unawares that I retreated a step. I glared helplessly at him. Then a bitter smile of hatred slowly crossed his features like that of a savage who has run down an enemy.
“So,” he drawled, “you’ve proved the mouse at last.”
I was too stupefied to reply.
“Why!” I gasped. “There’s some mistake—mouse——?”
“You’ve fallen into a trap, haven’t you?”
By degrees my breath came back to me.
“I’ve never seen you before,” I managed to say. “Surely——”
He cut me off with a growl.
“You don’t have to see a man to do him a harm, do you?” he said, and took a step towards me. “The next time a man is tied to a tree and asks for a drink of water——”
He did not finish, but made a lunge at me with his arms outstretched. It took all my alertness to spring back out of his way. Then, like a flash the thought of the scrivener’s dagger popped into my mind. I jerked it from my belt and raised it menacingly over my head.
The fellow stopped in his tracks. He shot a glance over my shoulder to the back of the room. I swung the dagger in the air with the thought that if I forced him from the door, I might escape. But my arm was hardly half way around when a sharp crack caught me on the wrist. The pain shot through me like the cutting of a knife. I loosed my grasp. The dagger flew across the room and fell clattering onto the wooden floor.
In the next breath my arms were caught from behind. They were pinned together with the firmness of a vise. A foot shot out and entangled itself in mine. A quick twist and I was jerked sideways and sent tumbling like the dagger across the room.
I was stunned from the force of the fall. I got slowly up on one elbow and looked dazedly around. The fire was dancing as though it mocked me. I laid my hand on my hip where it hurt me most. My fingers fumbled aimlessly somehow or other around my pocket. I was so stupefied that I was hardly conscious of what I was doing. My thumb and forefinger touched the bit of parchment which the King of the Birds had given me. I drew it out. By good fortune my assailants were at my back. I unfolded it more by habit than by purpose. When it lay open before the light of the blazing wood I was amazed to read a warning that had come altogether too late:
“Avoid the house in the woods!”