Etext of Black Bartlemy's Treasure 
by Jeffrey Farnol


BLACK BARTLEMY'S TREASURE

BY JEFFREY FARNOL


TO MY NEPHEWS

JAMES JEFFREY FARNOL

AND

RONALD EWART OAKESHOTT




BLACK BARTLEMY'S TREASURE


PROLOGUE

The Frenchman beside me had been dead since dawn.  His scarred
and shackled body swayed limply back and forth with every sweep
of the great oar as we, his less fortunate bench-fellows, tugged
and strained to keep time to the stroke.

Two men had I seen die beside me, yet Death ever passed me by,
nay, it seemed rather that despite the pain of stripes, despite
the travail and hardship, my strength waxed the mightier; upon
arm and thigh, burnt nigh black by fierce suns, the muscles
showed hard and knotted; within my body, scarred by the lash, the
life leapt and glowed yet was the soul of me sick unto death. 
But it seemed I could not die--finding thereby blessed rest and a
surcease from this agony of life as had this Frenchman, who of
all the naked wretches about me, was the only one with whom I had
any sort of fellowship.  He had died (as I say) with the dawn, so
quietly that at first I thought he but fainted and pitied him,
but, when I knew, pity changed to bitterness.

Therefore, as I strove at the heavy oar I prayed 'twixt gnashing
teeth a prayer I had often prayed, and the matter of my praying
was thus:

"O God of Justice, for the agony I needs must now endure, for the
bloody stripes and bitter anguish give to me vengeance--
vengeance, O God, on mine enemy!"

So prayed I, hoarse-panting and with the sweat trickling down
whiles I stared at the naked back of him that rowed before me--a
great, fat fellow he had been once, but now the skin hung in
numberless creases whereon were many weals, some raw and bloody,
that crossed and re-crossed each other after the manner of lace-
work.

"Justice, O God, upon mine enemy!  Since Death is not for me let
me live until I be avenged; for the pain I suffer so may I see
him suffer, for the anguish that is mine so may I watch his
agony.  Thou art a just God, so, God of Justice, give to me
vengeance!"

The sun rose high and higher over our quarter, beating down upon
our naked backs and adding greatly to our torments thereby,
waking the pain of old stripes and lending an added sting to new.

Ever and anon would come the sharp crack of the drivers' whips
followed by the squealing cry of quivering flesh (a cry wherein
was none of the human) the which, dying to a whine, was lost in
the stir and bustle of the great galleass.  But ever and always,
beneath the hoarse voices of the mariners, beneath the clash of
armour and tramp of feet, beneath the creak and rumble of the
long oars, came yet another sound, rising and falling yet never
ceasing, a dull, low sound the like of which you shall sometimes
hear among trees when the wind is high--the deep, sobbing moan
that was the voice of our anguish as we poor wretches urged the
great "Esmeralda" galleass upon her course.

The oar whereto I was chained along with my three bench-mates had
at some time been badly sprung, so that the armourers had made
shift to strengthen it with a stout iron fillet some six inches
wide.  Now it so happened that my grasp came upon this fillet,
and, with every stroke of the oar, day after day, week in and
week out, it had become my wont to rub the links of my chain to
and fro across this iron band, whereby they had become very
smooth and shining.

The words of my prayer were yet upon my lips, when, chancing to
look upon one of these links, I beheld that which set my heart a-
leaping and my riotous blood a-tingle to my fingers' ends; yet
'twas a very small thing, no more than a mark that showed upon
the polished surface of the link, a line not so thick as a hair
and not to be noticed without close looking; but when I bore upon
the link this hair-line grew and widened, it needed but a sudden
wrench and I should be free.  This threw me into such a rapturous
transport that I had much ado to contain myself, howbeit after
some while I lifted my eyes to the heaven all flushed and rosy
with the young day, for it seemed that God had indeed heard my
prayer.

Presently, along the gangway amidships, comes none other than
that accursed Portugal, Pedro the whip-master, who, espying the
drooping form of the Frenchman beside me, forthwith falls a-
cursing in his vile tongue and gives a prodigious flourish with
his whip.  Now by reason of much practice they do become very
expert with these same whips, insomuch that they shall (with a
certain cunning flick of the lash) gash you a man as it were with
a knife, the like of which none may bear and not cry out for the
exceeding pain of it.  "Ha, thou lazy dog!" cries he, "Think ye
to snore and take your ease whiles Pedro is aboard?"  And with
the word the long lash hissed and cracked upon the Frenchman's
naked back like a pistol-shot.

And lo! he (that meseemed was dead) stirred.  I felt the scarred
body leap and quiver, the swooning eyes opened, rolling dim and
sightless and the pallid face was twisted in sharp anguish; but,
even as I watched, the lines of agony were smoothed away, into
the wild eyes came a wondrous light, and uttering a great, glad
cry he sank forward across the oar-shaft and hung there. 
Hereupon this accursed Pedro betook him to his whip, smiting
right heartily, but, seeing the Frenchman stirred not and
perceiving, moreover, the blood to come but slow and in no great
quantity, he presently desisted and bade us cease rowing one and
all.

This sudden respite from labour served but to teach me how stiff
and painful were my limbs, more especially my left wrist and
ankle where the fetters had worn great sores.

The wind was fallen light and there rose that hot, sickening
reek, that suffocating stench that is like unto nothing on earth
save one of these floating hells, and the which, if a man hath
but smelled it once, he shall nevermore forget.

After some while, back cometh Pedro with certain of the
armourers, and (having by divers methods learned the Frenchman
was in sooth dead) they struck off his fetters, hand and leg, in
the doing of which they must needs free me also (since we were
chained together, he and I) and, binding a great shot to his
feet, made ready to heave him overboard.

And now, seeing no man heeded me, I snapped asunder the cracked
link and was free, save for the heavy chain that cumbered my leg. 
Stooping, I lifted this chain and crouched to spring for the
bulwark; but now (even in this moment), remembering all that I
had suffered at the hands of this most accursed Pedro, I turned,
and wrapping the broken oar-chain about my fist, crept towards
where he stood to oversee the armourers.  His back was towards me
and I was within a yard of him when he turned, and, seeing me,
uttered a shout and raised his whip, but ere the blow could fall
I leapt and smote him.  My iron-bound fist took him full betwixt
the eyes, and looking down upon his crushed and spattered face as
he lay I knew that Pedro the whip-master would whip men no more
these many days.

Then (not minded to die by the whip or upon a pike-head) turned I
and sprang for the ship's side, but the chain about my leg
hampered me sorely, and ere I could mount the high bulwark I was
beset from behind.  So would I have faced them and died fighting
but fierce strokes battered me to my knees, fierce hands wrenched
and tore at me, and grown faint with blows I was overborne, my
hands lashed behind me, and thus helpless I was dragged along the
gangway and so up the ladder to the poop where, plain to all
men's sight, a whipping-post had been set up.  Yet even so I
struggled still, panting out curses on them, French and Spanish
and English, drawing upon all the vile abuse of the rowing-bench
and lazarette since fain would I have them slay me out of hand
the rather than endure the miseries and anguish of my lot.  Yet
this might not be (since slaves were hard to come by and I was
mighty and strong) wherefore I struggled no more, but suffered
them to strike off my broken fetters and bind me to the whipping-
post as they listed.  Yet scarce had they made an end when there
comes a loud hail from the masthead, whereupon was sudden mighty
to-do of men running hither and yon, laughing and shouting one to
another, some buckling on armour as they ran, some casting loose
the great ordnance, while eyes turned and hands pointed in the
one direction; but turn and twist me how I might I could see
nought of any strange sail by reason of the high bulkhead beside
me.

Of a sudden all voices were hushed as up the poop-ladder comes
the commander Don Miguel in his black armour, who, looking long
and steadily to windward, gives a sign with his gauntleted hand,
whereon divers of the officers go off hot-foot, some to muster
the long files of arquebusiers, others to overlook the setting of
more sail and the like.  And now was a prodigious cracking of
whips followed by groans and cries and screaming curses, and
straightway the long oars began to swing with a swifter beat. 
From where I stood in my bonds I could look down upon the poor,
naked wretches as they rose and fell, each and all at the same
moment, in time to the stroke.

For maybe half an hour the chase was kept up and then all at once
the decks quivered 'neath the discharge of one of the forward
culverins; and presently, as the great galleass altered her
course, obedient to the motion of Don Miguel's hand, I beheld,
some half-league to windward, the towering stern of the ship we
were pursuing, whose length gradually grew upon me as we
overhauled her until she was fairly in view.  She was a small
ship, and by her build I did not doubt but that she was English;
even as I watched, up to her mizzen-peak fluttered the English
flag.  And hereupon a great yearning came upon me, insomuch that
of a sudden her high, weatherbeaten sides, her towering masts and
patched canvas grew all blurred and indistinct.

Thrice already our guns had roared, yet (though she was now so
close that I made out her very rope and spar) she made no sign. 
In a little our guns fell silent also, wherefore, looking about,
I beheld Don Miguel standing beside the tiller yet with his
impassive gaze ever bent upon the foe; and, as I watched, I read
his deadly purpose, and a great fear for the English ship came
upon me, and I fell a-praying beneath my breath, for we carried a
weapon more terrible than any culverin that was ever cast, the
long, sharp ram below the water.

The English ship was now so near that I could see the yawning
muzzles of her guns, while her high, curving sides seemed to
tower over us.  As I gazed, with my heart full of a pitiful fear
for her, I saw a head appear above her quarter-railing, a very
round head whereon was a mariner's red cap.  Came a puff of
smoke, the sharp crack of a caliver, and one of the officers
beside Don Miguel threw up his hands and, twisting on his heels,
fell clashing in his armour.  When I looked again for the red
cap, it was gone.  But Don Miguel waited, silent and impassive as
ever.  Suddenly he gestured with his hand, I saw the heave of the
steersmen's shoulders as they obeyed, while the air rang with
shouts of command as, the starboard oars holding water, the
larboard thrashed and churned amain and the great "Esmeralda"
galleass (turning thus well-nigh in her own length) drove
straight for the side of her foe.

Never had I seen it better done, and I set my teeth, waiting for
the grinding crash that was to send the English ship to the
bottom, but lo! her creaking yards were braced round, and, paying
off before the wind (which now blew strongly) she stood away upon
a course at right angles to her old, whereby both vessels were
running parallel as before.  Yet it had been close, so very close
indeed that as we drove past her I heard the sickening crack of
our oars as they snapped off one after the other against her
side, tossing those that manned them in bloody, struggling heaps.

And now from every English gun leaped roaring flame; the air was
full of shrieks and groans and the crash of splintering wood, and
through the eddying smoke I could see many of our soldiery that
lay in strange, contorted attitudes while others crawled, sobbing
on hands and knees; but on the scarlet-dropping rowing-benches I
dared not look.

Hotter waxed the fight, louder swelled the din and tumult with
the never-ceasing thunder of the guns; and amid it all Don Miguel
paced to and fro, impassive as always, the blade of his long
rapier gleaming here and there as he directed the fire.

Up rolled the smoke thicker and denser, but, ever and anon,
through some rift I might catch a glimpse of the scarred,
blackened side of the English ship, or the litter and confusion
of our decks.  Twice shots ploughed up the planking hard by me,
and once my post itself was struck, so that for a moment I had
some hope of winning free of my bonds, yet struggle how I would I
could not move; the which filled me with a keen despair, for I
made no doubt (what with the smoke and tumult) I might have
plunged overboard unnoticed and belike have gained the English
ship.

Slowly and by degrees our fire slackened, one by one the guns
fell silent and in their place rose the more hateful sounds of
anguish.  Now as I stood thus, my eyes smarting with burnt
powder, my ears yet ringing with the din, I grew aware how the
deck sloped in strange fashion; at first I paid small heed, yet
with every minute this slope became steeper, and with this
certainty came the knowledge that we were sinking and, moreover
(judging by the angle of the deck) sinking by the stern.

Hereupon, impelled by that lust of life the which is implanted in
each one of us, I fell to a wild struggling against my bonds,
until, seeing in a little the hopelessness of this, I grew
resigned to despair, and, ceasing my passionate efforts, looked
about me, for the smoke was thinned away.  And truly an evil
sight was this great galleass, with its shot-torn decks and
huddled heaps of dead, its litter of broken spars and dismantled
guns, and with everywhere great gouts and pools of blood, while
below and beyond were the shattered rowing-benches cumbered now
with awful red heaps, silent for the most part, yet some there
were who screamed high and shrill.

Save for myself and divers of the dead the poop lay deserted, but
forward such of the soldiers and mariners who yet lived were
fighting for the boats, and all was riot and confusion.

As I stared about me thus I espied Don Miguel lying among the
wreckage of a dismantled gun; his face was towards me and looked
as I had seen it an hundred times, save for a smear of blood upon
his cheek.  Even as I gazed his eyes met mine full and square. 
For a moment he lay without motion, then (his face a-twitch with
the effort) he came slowly to his elbow, gazed about him and so
back to me again.  Then I saw his hand creep down to the dagger
at his hip, to fumble weakly there--howbeit, at the third essay
he drew the blade and began to creep towards me.  Very slowly and
painfully he dragged himself along, and once I heard him groan,
but he stayed not till he was come within striking distance, yet
was he sore wounded and so weak withal that he was fain to rest
him awhile.  And ever his impassive eyes looked up into mine the
while I nerved myself to meet the blow unflinching (an it might
be so).  Once more he raised himself, his arm lifted slowly, the
dagger gleamed and fell, its keen edge severing the cords that
bound me, and with a sudden effort I broke free and stood staring
down into those impassive eyes as one in a dream.  Then, lifting
a feeble hand, he pointed to the tattered sails of the English
ship hard by, and so, resting his head upon his arm as one that
is very weary, he sighed; and with the sigh I think the life
passed out of him.

Turning, I was upon the quarter-railing in a single leap, and,
without a glance at the red havoc behind me, I plunged over and
down.

The sharp sting of the brine struck me like a myriad needle-
points, but the sweet cool of the waters was wondrous grateful to
my sun-scorched body as, coming to the surface, I struck out for
the English ship though sore hampered by my chain.

Presently coming beneath her lofty stern I found hanging
therefrom a tangle of ropes and cordage whereby I contrived to
clamber aboard, and so beheld a man in a red seaman's bonnet who
sat upon the wreckage of one of the quarter guns tying up a
splinter-gash in his arm with hand and teeth; perceiving me he
rolled a pair of blue eyes up at me and nodded:

"Welcome aboard, lad!" says he, having knotted the bandage to his
liking.  "Be ye one as can understand good English?"

"Aye!," says I, nodding.

"Why then bear witness as I be a patient soul and marciful.  Be
witness as I held my fire so long as any marciful soul might by
token that I knew what a broadside can do among crowded rowing-
benches--having rowed aboard one o' they Spanish hells afore now
--so I held my fire till yon devil's craft came nigh cutting me
asunder--and marcy hath its limits.  Timothy Spence o' the
"Tiger", master, is me, homeward bound for the Port of London,
and by this fight am short five good men.  But you're a proper
big 'un.  Go for'ard to the bo'sun, you shall know him by reason
that he lacketh his starboard yere.  Ask him for clothes to cover
thy nakedness, lad, and--Oho, there goeth yon devil's craft--!" 
Turning as he spoke I saw the sharp bows of the "Esmeralda" lift
and lift, high and higher, and, with a long-drawn gurgling roar,
the great galleass plunged down stern foremost, burying her shame
and misery from the eyes of man for evermore.

Thus then I sailed with Master Timothy Spence aboard the "Tiger,"
a free man after five years of anguish.



CHAPTER I

OF WHAT BEFELL ON PEMBURY HILL

It was a night of tempest with rain and wind, a great wild wind
that shouted mightily near and far, filling the world with
halloo; while, ever and anon, thunder crashed and lightning
flamed athwart the muddy road that wound steeply up betwixt
grassy banks topped by swaying trees.  Broken twigs, whirling
down the wind, smote me in the dark, fallen branches reached out
arms that grappled me unseen, but I held on steadfastly, since
every stride carried me nearer to vengeance, that vengeance for
the which I prayed and lived.  So with bared head lifted exulting
to the tempest and grasping the stout hedge-stake that served me
for staff, I climbed the long ascent of Pembury Hill.

Reaching the summit at last I must needs stay awhile to catch my
breath and shelter me as well as I might 'neath the weather bank,
for upon this eminence the rain lashed and the wind smote me with
a fury redoubled.

And now, as I stood amid that howling darkness, my back propped
by the bank, my face lifted to the tempest, I was aware of a
strange sound, very shrill and fitful, that reached me 'twixt the
booming wind-gusts, a sound that came and went, now loud and
clear, anon faint and remote, and I wondered what it might be. 
Then the rushing dark was split asunder by a jagged lightning-
flash, and I saw.  Stark against the glare rose black shaft and
crossbeam, wherefrom swung a creaking shape of rusty chains and
iron bands that held together something shrivelled and black and
wet with rain, a grisly thing that leapt on the buffeting wind,
that strove and jerked as it would fain break free and hurl
itself down upon me.

Now hearkening to the dismal creak of this chained thing, I fell
to meditation.  This awful shape (thought I) had been a man once,
hale and strong,--even as I, but this man had contravened the law
(even as I purposed to do) and he had died a rogue's death and so
hung, rotting, in his chains, even as this my own body might do
some day.  And, hearkening to the shrill wail of his fetters, my
flesh crept with loathing and I shivered.  But the fit passed,
and in my vain pride I smote my staff into the mud at my feet and
vowed within myself that nought should baulk me of my just
vengeance, come what might; as my father had suffered death
untimely and hard, so should die the enemy of my race; for the
anguish he had made me endure so should he know anguish.  I
bethought me how long and deadly had been this feud of ours,
handed down from one generation to another, a dark, blood-
smirched record of bitter wrongs bitterly avenged.  "To hate like
a Brandon and revenge like a Conisby!"  This had been a saying in
our south country upon a time; and now--he was the last of his
race as I was the last of mine, and I had come back out of hell
that this saying might be fulfilled.  Soon--ha, yes, in a few
short hours the feud should be ended once and for all and the
house of Conisby avenged to the uttermost.  Thinking thus, I
heeded no more the raving tempest around me until, roused by the
plunge and rattle of the gibbet-chains, I raised my head and
shaking my staff up at that black and shrivelled thing, I laughed
loud and fierce, and, even as I did so, there leapt a great blaze
of crackling flame and thereafter a thunder-clap that seemed to
shake the very earth and smite the roaring wind to awed silence;
and in this silence, I heard a whisper:

"O mercy of God!"

Somewhere in the darkness hard by a woman had cried. 
Instinctively I turned thitherward, searching the night vainly
until the lightning flared again and I beheld a cloaked and
hooded figure huddled miserably against the bank of the road,
and, as darkness came, I spoke:

"Woman, doth the gibbet fright you, or is't I?  If 'tis the
gibbet go hence, if 'tis I rest assured."

"Who are you?" said a breathless voice.

"One of no more account than the poor thing that danceth aloft in
his chains and for you as harmless."

And now she was beside me, a dark, wind-blown shape, and above
the howling tempest her voice reached me in passionate pleading:

"Sir--sir, will you aid one in sore danger and distress?"

"Yourself?" I questioned.

"Nay--indeed nay," she panted, "'tis Marjorie, my poor, poor
brave Marjorie.  They stopped my coach--drunken men.  I know not
what came of Gregory and I leapt out and escaped them in the
dark, but Marjorie--they carried her off--there is a light down
the lane yonder.  I followed and saw--O sir, you will save
Marjorie--you are a man--"

A hand was upon my ragged sleeve, a hand that gripped and shook
at me in desperate supplication--"You will save her from--from
worse than death?  Speak--speak!"

"Lead on!" quoth I, answering this compelling voice.  The griping
fingers slipped down and clasped my hand in the dark, and with
never another word she led me away unseeing and unseen until we
came where we were more sheltered from rain and wind; and now I
took occasion to notice that the hand that gripped mine so
masterfully was small and soft, so that what with this and her
voice and speech I judged her one of condition.  But my curiosity
went no further nor did I question her, for in my world was no
place for women.  So she led me on at haste despite the dark--
like one that was sure of her whereabouts--until I suddenly
espied a dim light that shone out from the open lattice of what I
judged to be a small hedge-tavern.  Here my companion halted
suddenly and pointed to the light.

"Go!" she whispered.  "Go--nay, first take this!" and she thrust
a small pistol into my hand.  "Haste!" she panted, "O haste--and
I do pray God shield and bless you."  Then with never a word I
left her and strode towards the beam of light.

Being come nigh the casement I paused to cock the weapon and to
glance at the priming, then, creeping to the open lattice, I
looked into the room.

Three men scowled at each other across a table--desperate-looking
fellows, scarred and ill-featured, with clothes that smacked of
the sea; behind them in a corner crouched a maid, comely of
seeming but pallid of cheek and with cloak torn by rough hands,
and, as she crouched, her wide eyes stared at the dice-box that
one of the men was shaking vigorously--a tall, hairy fellow this,
with great rings in his ears; thus stood he rattling the dice and
smiling while his companions cursed him hoarsely.

With a twist of the hand the hairy man made his throw, and as the
three evil heads stooped above the dice, I clambered through the
window, levelled pistol in one hand, heavy staff in the other.

"What d'ye set?" quoth I.  The three sprang apart and stared at
me quite chapfallen.

"What's to do?" growled one.

"First your barking-irons--lay them here on the table and quick's
the word!"  One after another they drew the weapons from their
belts, and one by one I tossed them through the window.

"What!" quoth one, a lank rogue with a patch over one eye and
winking the other jovial-wise, "How now, mate o' mine, shall dog
bite dog then?"

"Aye," says I, "and with a will!"

"Nay, nay, shipmate," quoth another, a plump, small man with
round, bright eyes and but one ear, "easy now--easy.  We be three
lorn mariners d'ye see--jolly dogs, bully boys, shipmate--a
little fun wi' a pretty lass--nought to harm d'ye see, sink me! 
Join us and welcome, says I, share and share alike O!"

"Aye, I'll join you," quoth I, "but first--you wi' the rings--
open the door!"  Here the hairy fellow growled an oath and
reached for an empty tankard, and thereupon got the end of my
staff driven shrewdly into his midriff so that he sank to the
floor and lay gasping.

"Nay now, shipmate," quoth the plump man in wheedling tone but
round eyes snapping, "here's lubberly manners, sink and scuttle
me--"

"Open the door!" says I.

"Heartily--heartily!" says he, his eye upon my cudgel, and edging
to the door, drew the bolts and set it wide.

"Woman," quoth I, "run!"

With never a word the maid sprang erect, caught her torn cloak
about her and, speeding across the room, was gone; whereupon the
lank fellow sat him down and fell a-cursing viciously in Spanish
and English, the plump man clicked his teeth and grinned, while
'Rings,' leaning against the wall, clasped his belly and groaned.

"Well so, my bully roarer, and what now?" demanded the plump man,
softly.

"Why now," says I, "'twas share and share alike, I mind--"

"Aye, but she's off, slipped her moorings d'ye see, my good lad,
and be damned t' ye wi' all my heart," said the little plump man,
smiling, but with the devil peeping through his narrowed lids.

"Look'ee," says I, laying a groat upon the table, "there's my
all--come turn out your pockets--"

"Pockets!" murmured the plump man, "Lord love me, what's this? 
Here's us cheated of a bit of daintiness, here's Abner wi' all
the wind knocked out o' him and now here's you for thieving and
robbing three poor lorn sailor-men as never raised hand agin ye--
shame, shipmate."

"Od rot your bones!" snarled the one-eyed man and spat towards
me, whereat I raised my staff and he, lifting an arm, took the
blow on his elbow-joint and writhed, cursing; but while I laughed
at the fellow's contortions, the plump man sprang (marvellous
nimble) and dashed out the light and, as I stepped from before
the window, I heard the lattice go with a crash of glass. 
Followed a long, tense moment wherein we all (as I judge) held
our breath, for though the storm yet roared beyond the shattered
casement, within was a comparative quiet.  Thus, as I stood in
the dark listening for some rustle, some stealthy creeping step
to guide my next blow, I thrust away my pistol and changing my
staff to my right hand, drew forth the broad-bladed sailor's
knife I carried, and so waited mighty eager and alert, but heard
only the far-off booming of the wind.  Then a floorboard creaked
faintly to my left, and turning short, I whirled my staff, felt
it strike home and heard a fierce cry and the uneven tread of
staggering feet.

"Fight, rogues!" cried I.  "Here's meat and drink to me--fight!"
and setting my back to the wall I waited for their rush.  Instead
I heard a hoarse whispering, lost all at once in a woman's shrill
scream out beyond the casement, and thereafter a loud voice that
hailed:

"House ho!  House ahoy!  Light ho!  Show a glim, ye drunken
dogs!" and here followed a rush of roaring sea-oaths, drowned in
a scream, louder, wilder than before.  Then, while this
distressful cry yet thrilled upon the air, pandemonium broke
loose about me, shouts, cries and a rush and trample of feet; the
table went over with a crash and the darkness about me rained
blows.  But as they struck random and fierce, so struck I and (as
I do think) made right goodly play with my hedge-stake until,
caught by a chance blow, I staggered, tripped and, falling
headlong, found myself rolling upon sodden grass outside the
shattered window.  For a moment I lay half-dazed and found in the
wind and rain vasty comfort and refreshment.

Then in the pitchy gloom hard by I heard that which brought me to
my feet--an evil scuffling, a close and desperate struggling--a
man's hoarse laugh and a woman's pitiful pleading and sobbing.  I
had lost my staff, but I yet grasped my knife, and with this held
point upwards and my left hand outstretched before me, I crept
forward guided by these sounds.  My fingers came upon hair, a
woman's long, soft tresses, and I remember marvelling at the
silky feel of them; from these my hand slipped to her waist and
found there an arm that grasped her close, then, drawing back my
hand, I smote with my knife well beneath this arm and drove in
the stout blade twice.  The fellow grunted and, loosing the maid,
leapt full at me, but I met him with clenched fist and he went
down headlong, and I, crouched above him and feeling him struggle
to his knees, kicked him back into the mud and thereafter leapt
on him with both feet as I had been wont to do when fighting my
fellow-slaves in some lazarette; then, seeing he stirred no more,
I left him, doubting nothing I had done his business.  Yet as I
went I felt myself shiver, for though I had been compelled to
fight the naked wretches who had been my fellow-slaves, I had
killed no man as yet.

Thus as I went, chancing to stumble against a tree, I leaned
there awhile; and now remembering those two blows under the
armpit, what with this stabbing and my fall and lack of food, for
I had eaten but once that day, I grew faint and sick.  But as I
leaned there, out of the gloom came a hand that fumbled timidly
my bowed head, my arm, my hand.

"Sir--are you hurt?" questioned a voice, and here once again I
was struck by the strange, vital quality of this voice, its bell-
like depth and sweetness.

"No whit!" says I.  Now as I spoke it chanced she touched the
knife in my grasp and I felt her shiver a little.

"Did you--O sir--did you--kill him?"

"And wherefore no?" I questioned.  "And why call me 'sir'?"

"You do speak as one of gentle birth."

"And go like the beggar I am--in rags.  I am no 'sir.'"

"How may I call you?"

"Call me rogue, thief, murderer--what ye will, 'tis all one.  But
as for you," quoth I, lifting my head, "'tis time you were gone--
see yonder!" and I pointed where a light winked through the
trees, a light that danced to and fro, coming slowly nearer until
it stopped all at once, then rose a shout answered by other
shouts and a roar of dismayed blasphemy.  At this my companion
pressed nearer so that I felt her shiver again.

"Let us be gone!" she whispered.  "Marjorie, come, child, let us
haste."  So we went on together at speed, and ever as we went
that small, soft hand was upon the hand that held the knife.  So
we sped on through the dark, these two maids and I, unseeing and
unseen, speaking little by reason of our haste.

Presently the rain ceased, the wind abated its rage and the
thunder pealed faint with distance, while ever and anon the gloom
gave place to a vague light, where, beyond the flying cloud-
wrack, a faint moon peeped.

Guided by that slender hand, so soft and yet instinct with warm
and vigorous life, I stumbled on through leafy ways, traversed a
little wood, on and ever on until, the trees thinning, showed
beyond a glimmer of the great high road.  Here I stayed.

"Madam," says I, making some ado over the unfamiliar word.  "You
should be safe now--and, as I do think, your road lieth yonder."

"Pembury is but a mile hence," says she, "and there we may get
horses.  Come, at least this night you shall find comfort and
shelter."

"No," says I.  "No--I am a thing of the roads, and well enough in
hedge or rick!" and I would have turned but her hand upon my
sleeve restrained me.

"Sir," says she, "be you what you will, you are a man!  Who you
are I know and care not--but you have this night wrought that I
shall nevermore forget and now I--we--would fain express our
gratitude--"

"Indeed and indeed!" said the maid Marjorie, speaking for the
first time.

"I want no gratitude!" says I, mighty gruff.

"Yet shall it follow thee, for the passion of gratitude is strong
and may not be denied--even by beggar so proud and arrogant!" 
And now, hearkening to this voice, so deep and soft and strangely
sweet, I knew not if she laughed at me or no; but even as I
debated this within myself, she lifted my hand, the hand that
grasped the knife, and I felt the close, firm pressure of two
warm, soft lips; then she had freed me and I fell back a step,
striving for speech yet finding none.

"God love me!" quoth I at last.  "Why must you--do so!"

And wherefore not?" she questioned proudly.

"'Tis the hand of a vagrant, an outcast, a poor creeper o'
ditches!" says I.

"But a man's hand!" she answered.

"'Tis at hand that hath slain once this night and shall slay
again ere many hours be sped."  Now here I heard her sigh as one
that is troubled.

"And yet," says she gently, "'tis no murderer's hand and you that
are vagrant and outcast are no rogue."

"How judge ye this, having never seen me?" I questioned.

"In that I am a woman.  For God hath armed our weakness with a
gift of knowledge whereby we may oft-times know truth from
falsehood, the noble from the base, 'spite all their outward
seeming.  So do I judge you no rogue--a strong man but very--aye,
very young that, belike, hath suffered unjustly, and being so
young art fierce and impatient of all things, and apt to rail
bitterly 'gainst the world.  Is't not so?"

"Aye," says I, marvelling, "truly 'tis like witchcraft--mayhap
you will speak me my name."  At this she laughed (most wonderful
to hear and vastly so to such coarse rogue as I, whose ears had
long been strangers to aught but sounds of evil and foul
obscenity):

"Nay," says she, "my knowledge of you goeth no further--but--"
(and here she paused to fetch a shuddering breath) "but for him
you killed--that two-legged beast!  You did but what I would have
done for--O man, had you not come I--I should have killed him,
maid though I am!  See, here is the dagger I snatched from his
girdle as he strove with me.  O, take it--take it!"  And, with a
passionate gesture, she thrust the weapon into my grasp.

"O madam--my lady!" cried her companion, "Look, yonder be lights
--lanthorns aflare on the road.  'Tis Gregory as I do think, with
folk come to seek for us.  Shall we go meet them?"

"Nay wait, child--first let us be sure!"  So side by side we
stood all three amid the dripping trees, watching the tossing
lights that grew ever nearer until we might hear the voices of
those that bare them, raised, ever and anon, in confused
shouting.

"Aye, 'tis Gregory!" sighed my lady after some while.  "He hath
raised the village and we are safe--"

"Hark!" cried I, starting forward.  "What name do they cry upon?"

"Mine, sir!"

"Oho, my lady!" roared the hoarse chorus.  "Oho, my Lady Joan--my
Lady Brandon--Brandon--Brandon!"

"Brandon!" cried I, choking upon the word.

"Indeed, sir--I am the Lady Joan Brandon of Shene Manor, and so
long as life be mine needs must I bear within my grateful heart
the memory of--"

But, waiting for no more, I turned and sprang away into the
denser gloom of the wood.  And ever as I went, crashing and
stumbling through the underbrush, above the noise of my headlong
flight rang the hated name of the enemy I had journeyed so far to
kill--"Brandon!  Brandon!  Brandon!"


CHAPTER II

HOW I HEARD A SONG IN THE WOOD AT MIDNIGHT

Headlong went I, staying for nought and heedless of all
direction, but presently, being weary and short of breath, I
halted and leaning against a tree stood thus very full of bitter
thought.  The storm was quite passed, but a chill wind was abroad
that moaned dismally, while all about me sodden trees dripped
with mournful, sobbing noises.  And hearkening to all this, what
should I be thinking but of the sweet, soft tones of a woman's
voice that had stirred within me memories of better days, a voice
that had set me to dreams of a future, to fond and foolish
imaginings.  For, though shamed and brutalised by my sufferings,
I was a man and in this past hour (strange though it do seem)
felt scorn of myself and a yearning for higher things, and all
this by no greater reason than the sound of a woman's voice in
the dark and the touch of her warm lips on my hand--and she a
Brandon!  And now as the bitter mockery of it all rushed upon me,
fierce anger swept me and I broke forth into vile oaths and
cursings, English and Spanish, foul invectives picked up from the
rogues, my fellows in misery; and feeling a new shame therefore,
did but curse the more.  So there crouched I 'gainst the tree,
shivering like the miserable wretch I was and consumed with a
ravening hunger.  At last, becoming aware that I yet grasped a
weapon in either hand, I thrust my knife in my girdle and fell to
handling this other, judging it by touch since it was yet too
dark for eyes to serve me.  And by its feel I knew it for no
honest knife; here was a thing wrought by foreign hands, a haft
cunningly shaped and wrought, a blade curiously slender and long
and three-edged, a very deadly thing I judged by the feel.  Now
since it had no sheath (and it so sharp) I twisted my neckerchief
about it from pommel to needle-point, and thrusting it into the
leathern wallet at my belt, went on some way further 'mid the
trees, seeking some place where I might be sheltered from the
cold wind.  Then, all at once, I heard that which brought me to a
stand.

A man was singing and at no great distance, a strange, merry air
and stranger words; and the voice was loud, yet tuneful and
mellow, and the words (the which I came to know all too well)
were these:

"Cheerly O and cheerly O,
Right cheerly I'll sing O,
Whiles at the mainyard to and fro
We watch a dead man swing O.
With a rumbelow and to and fro
He by the neck doth swing O!

One by the knife did part wi' life
And three the bullet took O,
But three times three died plaguily
A-wriggling on a hook O.
A hook both strong and bright and long,
They died by gash o' hook O.

So cheerly O and cheerly O,
Come shake a leg, lads, all O.
Wi' a yo-ho-ho and a rumbelow
And main-haul, shipmates, haul O.

Some swam in rum to kingdom come,
Full many a lusty fellow.
And since they're dead I'll lay my head
They're flaming now in hell O.

So cheerly O, so cheerly O"--

Waiting for no more of the vile rant I strode forward and thus
presently came on a small dell or dingle full of the light of a
fire that crackled right merrily; at the which most welcome sight
I made shift to scramble down the steepy bank forthright and
approached the blaze on eager feet.  Drawing near, I saw the fire
burned within a small cave beneath the bank, and as I came within
its radiance the song broke off suddenly and a man rose up,
facing me across the fire and with one hand hid under the flap of
his side pocket.

"Fibs off your popps, cull!" quoth in the vernacular of the
roads.  "Here's none but a pal as lacketh warmth and a bite!"

"Aha!" quoth the fellow, peering across the blaze, "And who be
you?  Stand and give a show o' your figurehead!"  Obediently I
stood with hands outspread to the flame, warming my shivering
body at its grateful heat.

"Well?" says I.

"Why," quoth he, nodding, "You're big enough and wild enough and
as likely a cut-throat as another--what's the lay?"

"The high pad!" says I.

"Where away?"

"'Tis no matter!"

"All I asks is," quoth the fellow with a quizzical look, "how
you've fobbed the nubbing-cheat so long!"

"And what I ask is," quoth I, "how a sailor-man comes to know the
patter o' the flash coves!"

"'Tis no matter," says he, "but since you're o' the Brotherhood
sit ye and welcome, 'tis dry enough here in this cave."

Staying for no second bidding I entered the little cave and sat
me down in the comforting warmth of the fire.  The man was a
comely fellow of a hectoring, swashing air, bright of eyes and
instant of gesture; close to hand lay a short cutting-sword,
pistols bulged his deep coat-pockets, while betwixt his knees was
a battered case-bottle.

"Well," says he, eyeing me over, "what's the word?"

"Food!" says I.

"Nary a bite!" he answered, shaking his head.  "But here's rum
now if you've a mind to sluice the ivories--ha?"

"Not a drop!" says I.

"Good!  The more for me!" he nodded.  "Rum--ha--

"Some swam in rum to kingdom come"--

"You sing a mighty strange song!" quoth I.

"Ha--d'ye like it?"

"No, I don't!"

"And wherefore no?"

"There seems overmuch death in it."

"Death?" cries he with a great laugh and hugging his case-bottle. 
"Death says you--aye, aye, says I and so there is, death in every
line on't.  'Tis song as was made for dead men, of dead men, by a
dead man, and there's for ye now!"  Here he lifted the bottle,
drank, and thereafter smacked his lips with great gusto.  "Made
by a dead man," he repeated, "for dead men, of dead men, and
there's for ye!"

"I like your song less and less!"

"You've a cursed queasy stomach I think!" he hiccupped.

"And an empty one!" says I.

"'Tis a song well bethought on by--by better men nor you, for all
your size!" says he, glancing at me over his bottle with a
truculent eye, and though his glance was steady, I perceived the
drink was affecting him more and more.  "Aye, many a better man!"
he nodded, frowning.

"As who?" I questioned.

"First, there's Abnegation Mings as you shall hear tell of on the
Main from Panama to St. Catherine's, aye, by the horns of Nick
there be none of all the coastwise Brotherhood quicker or readier
when there's aught i' the wind than Abnegation, and you can lay
to that, my delicate cove!"

"And who's he?"

"Myself!"  Here he took another draught and nodded at me in
drunken solemnity.  "And look'ee, my dainty cull, when you've
seen as much o' death as Abnegation Mings you'll know as Death's
none so bad a thing, so long as it leaves you alone.  And I for
one say 'tis a good song and there's for ye!"

"And who else?"

"Well, there's Montbars as do they call the Exterminator, and
there's young Harry Morgan--a likely lad, and there's Roger
Tressady and Sol Aiken and Penfeather--sink him!"

"And Abner!" said I at a venture.

"Aye for sure!" he nodded, and then, "Ha, d'ye know Abner then?"

"I've met him."

"Where away?"

"In a tavern some mile hence."

"A tavern!" quoth he, "A tavern, 'od rot 'em and here's me hove
short in this plaguy hole!  A tavern, and here's my bottle out--
dog bite me!  But a mouthful left--well, here's to a bloody shirt
and the Brotherhood o' the Coast."

"You drink to the buccaneers, I think?" says I.

"And what if I do?"

"'Tis said they be no better than pirates--"

"Would ye call me a pirate then?" cried he, scowling.

"I would."  Quick as flash he clapped hand to pocket, but the
pistol caught on the lining, and before he could free it I had
covered him with mine, whereat he grew suddenly rigid and still. 
"Up wi' your fambles!" says I.  Obediently he raised his hands
and, taking his pistols, I opened the pan of each one and, having
blown out the primings, tossed them back.

"Snake sting me!" says he, laughing ruefully as he re-pocketed
his weapons.  "This comes o' harbouring a lousy rogue as balks
good liquor.  The man as won't take good rum hath the head of a
chicken, the heart of a yellow dog, and the bowels of a w-worm,
and bone-rot him, says I.  Lord love me, but I've seen many a
better throat than yours slit ere now, my buxom lad!"

"And aided too, belike?" says I.

"Why, here's a leading question--but mum!  Here's a hand that
knoweth not what doth its fellow--mum, boy, mum!"  And tilting
back his head he brake forth anew into his villainous song:

"Two on a knife did end their life
And three the bullet took O,
But three times three died plaguily
A-wriggling on a hook O.
Sing cheerly O and cheerly O,
They died by gash o' hook O."

"And look'ee, my ben cull, if I was to offer ye all Bartlemy's
treasure--which I can't, mark me--still you'd never gather just
what manner o' hook that was.  Anan, says you--mum, boy, says I. 
Howbeit, I say, 'tis a good song," quoth he, blinking drowsily at
the fire, "here's battle in't, murder and sudden death and wha--
what more could ye expect of any song--aye, and there's women
in't too!"  Here he fell to singing certain lewd ribaldry that I
will not here set down, until what with the rum and the drowsy
heat of the fire that I had replenished, he yawned, stretched,
and laying himself down, very soon fell a-snoring, to my no small
comfort.  As for me, I sat there waiting for the dayspring; the
fire sank lower and lower, filling the little cave with a rosy
glow falling athwart the sprawling form of the sleeper and making
his red face seem purplish and suffused like the face of one I
had once seen dead of strangulation; howbeit, he slept well
enough, judging from his lusty snoring.  Now presently in the
surrounding dark beyond the smouldering fire was a glimmer, a
vague blur of sloping, trampled bank backed by misty trees; so
came the dawn, very chill and full of eddying mists that crawled
phantom-like, filling the little dingle brimful and blotting out
the surrounding trees.  In a little I arose and, coming without
the cave, shivered in the colder air, shaken with raging hunger. 
And now remembering my utter destitution, I stooped to peer down
at the sleeper, half minded to go through his pockets, but in a
while I turned away and left him sprawled in his sottish slumber.


CHAPTER III

TELLS HOW I STOLE MY BREAKFAST

The mist lay very thick all about me, but when I had climbed to
higher ground it thinned away somewhat, so that as the pallid
light grew I began to see something of the havoc wrought by the
storm; here and there lay trees uprooted, while everywhere was a
tangle of broken boughs and trailing branches, insomuch that I
found my going no small labour.  But presently as I forced a way
through these leafy tangles, the birds, awaking, began to fill
the dim world with blithe chirpings that grew and grew to a sweet
clamour, ever swelling until the dark woods thrilled with
gladsome music and I, beholding the first beam of sun, felt
heartened thereby 'spite my lack of sleep and the gnawing of
hunger's sharp fangs, and hastened with blither steps.  Thus in a
while I brake forth of the desolate trees and came out upon a
fair, rolling meadow with blooming hedgerows before me and,
beyond, the high road.  And now as I stayed to get my bearings,
up rose the sun in majesty, all glorious in purple and pink and
gold, whose level beams turned the world around me into a fair
garden all sweet and fresh and green, while, in the scowling
woods behind, the sullen mists crept furtive away till they were
vanished quite and those leafy solitudes became a very glory.

But my hunger was very sore, a need I purposed to satisfy soon
and at all hazards; therefore, having marked my direction, I went
at speed and, crossing the meadow, came into the highway and
struck south.  On my going through the woods I had chosen me a
cudgel in place of the one lost, shortish and knotted and very
apt for quick wrist-play, and I plucked forth my sailor's knife
meaning to trim my staff therewith; but with it poised in my
hand, I stopped all at once, for I saw that the point of the
stout blade (the which I had sharpened and whetted to an extreme
keenness), I perceived, I say, that the blade was bent somewhat
and the point turned, hook-like.  Now as I strode on again, the
early sun flashing back from the steel, I fell to wondering how
this had chanced, and bethinking me of those two deadly blows I
had struck in the dark I scrutinised my knife, blade and haft,
yet found nowhere on it any trace of blood, so that 'twas
manifest the fellow had worn some protection--chain-shirts were
common enough and many a rogue went with a steel skull to line
his hat.  So it seemed the fellow lived yet and (black rogue
though he was) I was vaguely glad 'twas not my hand had sent him
to his account.

I was yet revolving the matter in my mind when I heard a loud and
merry whistling, and glancing up, beheld a country fellow
approaching down a side lane.  He wore a wide-eaved hat and his
smock was new-washed and speckless; but that which drew and held
my eyes, that which brought me to a sudden stand, was the bundle
he bore wrapped in a fair, white clout.  So, with my gaze on this
I stood leaning on my knotted, untrimmed staff, waiting him. 
Suddenly, chancing to turn his head, he espied me, halted in his
stride, then eyeing me askance, advanced again.  A small man he
was, with rosy face, little, merry eyes, and a wide, up-curving
mouth.

"Goo' marnin' to 'ee--it do have been a tur'ble bad starm las'
night, master!"

"Aye!" says I, and my heart warmed to him by reason of his good
Kentish tongue--the like of which I had not heard these many
weary years; but at sight of that white-clouted bundle my mouth
watered and hunger gnawed with sharper tooth.  "What have ye
here?" I questioned, touching this with my staff.

"Nou't but my dinner, master, 's ever was!"

"Nay," says I scowling, "I think not!"

"Aye, but it be, master!" he nodded.  "Bread and beef wi' a
mossel of cheese like, 's ever was!"

"Bread!" says I.  "Beef!  Cheese!  Liar--here is no dinner o'
yours!"

"Aye, master, but it do be so, sure!" quoth he, staring.  "My
very own dinner cut by my very own darter, beef an' bread an' a
mossel o' cheese--I take my bible oath t' it, I do--bread an'
beef an' a mossel--"

"Show me!"  With notable haste he undid the wrapping, discovering
a good half-loaf, a thick slice of roast beef and a slab of
yellow cheese.

"Ha, man!" quoth I 'twixt shut teeth.  "So you lied to me then."

"Lied to 'ee, master?" says he faintly.

"You told me 'twas your dinner!"

"Aye, and so it be, so it be, I lay my oath--beef, d'ye see, an'
a mossel--"

"Nay," says I gathering up the viands, "here's my breakfast."

"Is it?" says he, gaping.

"It is!  Would ye deny it?"

"Not for a moment!" says he, eyeing my staff and the gleaming
knife in my belt.  "Lordy, no!  Only how was I to know 'twere
yourn, master--when my darter cut it for her very own feyther--"

"We live and we learn!" says I, turning away.  "What might your
name be?"

"Full-o'-j'y Tucker, master."

"Why then, Full-of-joy, though my gain be your loss take comfort
in that 'tis more blessed to give than receive.  Moreover, though
you lack a dinner you have a daughter and a roof to shelter you
and I neither one nor other--a poor, hungry rogue.  Methinks of
the two of us you have the better of life."

"Why, look'ee now, master," says he, scratching his shaven chin,
"since you've got your breakfus' surely, if you're minded t' step
along t' my cottage down t' lane, I can give ye a jug of good ale
to wash it down."  Now as he spoke thus, seeing the sturdy
manliness of him I dropped my staff and reached out my hand.

"Full-of-joy," says I, "a starving man must eat by hook or crook,
but if you'll give your honest hand to a thief--there's mine!"

The man stared from my hand to my face, his wide mouth curved,
then rubbing hand on snowy smock he grasped my fingers and wrung
them heartily--a clean and honest grip, such as I had not known
for many a long day.

"Will 'ee come, master?" he questioned.  I shook my head.  Quoth
I:

"You have a daughter and I'm no fit company for a good, sweet
maid--nor ever shall be for that matter!"  So saying, I dropped
his hand and turning, strode away down the road, his dinner
beneath my arm; and when at last I glanced back I saw him
standing where I had left him, staring after me chin in hand. 
Presently, turning in at a gate beside the way, I sat down
beneath a hedge in the warm, level beams of the sun and fell to
eating with huge appetite and (stolen though it was) never tasted
food more sweet.  I was thus rapturously employed when I heard a
dolorous whine and, starting about, beheld a ragged creature on
the opposite side of the hedge who glared at the food with
haggard eyes and reached out claw-like hands in supplication.

"O for the love o' Christ, spare a crust!" she wailed.  "Spare a
bite to a grannam as dieth o' hunger.  O sweet Jesu--a mouthful
to a poor soul as do be pined for lack o' food--"

"Off!" cries I fiercely, "What know you of hunger?  Away, hag!"
and I reached for my staff, whereupon she wailed and wept, and
clawing her dismal rags about her, crept away moaning.

But now while my jaws champed ravenously, the food had lost its
savour; wherefore I cursed and choked and, springing to my feet,
made after her, but, seeing me follow at speed, she cried out in
fear and, striving to flee from me, sank on feeble knees.

"Old hag!" quoth I, "Be damned for spoiling a hungry man's
appetite and robbing him of what he was at pains to rob for
himself!"  Then I thrust the well-filled napkin into her
clutching fingers and hasted away, but her raptured cry followed
me as I went.

I trudged on slow and heavy through the mud, being very weary for
lack of sleep and mightily down cast, heedless of gladsome morn
and the fair, fresh world about me, conscious but of my own most
miserable estate; insomuch that I presently sank down on the
grass by the road and, with heavy head bowed between my hands,
gave myself up to black despond.

But now as I sat thus, very sick and sorrowful, I heard a sound
of wheels and plodding hoofs drawing slowly near, and lifting my
head at last, espied a great wain piled high with fragrant hay
whereon the driver sprawled asleep, a great fat fellow whose
snores rose above the jingle of harness and creak of wheels.  Now
hearkening to his snoring, beholding him so gross and full-fed
(and I starving!!) my sadness gave place to sudden, hot anger
and, as the waggon lumbered by, I swung myself up behind, and
clambering over the hay, raised my staff, minded to drub the
fellow into wakefulness; but even then I stayed the blow, for I
spied a wallet that hung to the driving-seat, a large wallet of
plump and inviting aspect.  Reaching it down I opened it
forthwith and found therein a new-baked loaf, a roast capon
delicately browned and a jar of small beer.  And now, couched
luxuriously among the hay, I fell to work (tooth and nail) and
though I ate in voracious haste, never before or since have I
tasted aught so delicate and savoury as that stolen fowl.  I was
yet busied with what remained of the carcass when the fat fellow
choked in his snoring, sighed, grunted, propped himself on lazy
elbow and, catching sight of me, fell a-gaping.  So whiles he
watched open-mouthed, I finished what remained of the capon and
tossed the bones over the hedge.

"Ecod!" quoth he faintly.  "O, ecod--my dinner!"  As for me,
having my mouth full, I spake not.  "Ad's bobs!" says he, "A
rascally, robbing thief of the roads!"

"Even so!" I nodded and took a long draught of his beer.

"A-eating and a-drinking of a honest man's dinner, by the Lord!"
says he, clenching fat fists.  "O ecod--a hell-fire rogue--a very
lousy, scurvy dog as shall be carted and whipped and set in Sir
Richard's new pillory!"  At this, being engaged with the bread, I
reached out my foot and kicked him (very featly) in the belly;
whereat he gasped and growing thoughtful, dolefully watched me
make an end.

"If there is aught left to eat," says I, "show it me!"

"As fine a capon as was ever plucked, by the Lord!" he groaned.

"Most true!" says I, stretching myself in the hay.

"O!" quoth he, as to himself, "O the pity on't--so foul an end to
so fair a bird!"

"Never whine!" says I, "but tell me how far hence lieth
Lamberhurst."

"Better nor six mile!" he sighed, heaving himself into the
driving-seat.

"Why then, do you carry me thither."

"Ad's love!" he mourned.  "'Tis manifest shame a rogue should
thieve the food of an honest man--a man like I be as do slave
morning, noon and--"

"Slave!" says I, frowning.  "What know you of slavery?  Be curst
for a great, fat fool that speaketh lies!"  Now watching him as I
lay, I saw his hand close stealthily on his heavy whip, but or
ever he could turn to strike, I rose and fetched him a buffet
'neath the ear that pitched him sprawling upon the broad backs of
his horses, whence (with much groaning and puffing) he presently
got him safely into the road; seeing the which, I took the reins,
whipping the team to faster gait, so that to keep pace he must
needs trot it in the mud.

"Hold!" cries he.  "What would ye wi' my waggon?"

"Ride in 't!"

"Hold!  Then suffer me to ride likewise, for I'm scant o'
breath--"

"Good!  I've been scant o' breath ere now!"

"Show a little pity, master!" he groaned.

"None ever showed pity on me!"

"Nay, but--what harm have I--ever--done thee?"

"Begrudged food to a starving wretch!"

"'Twas my dinner and I do need a deal of feeding, I!  Lord, how I
sweat!  Prithee, master, let me up.  How have I deserved this?"

"Called me rogue and thief!"

"Aye, that I did--to my woe.  Aye, rogue I named thee and
likewise--lousy knave--and grieve for't now, I do!"

"And so needs must you sweat awhile!" says I.

And thus I (aloft and at mine ease) and the fat fellow trotting
breathless at the wheel we went awhile (and never another word)
until, what with fear of losing his goods, what with the mud and
heat and sweat, the poor gross fool looked wellnigh spent and all
foredone (as I had seen many a better man than he), whereupon I
brought the waggon to a stand and reached down to stir him where
he lent half-swooning across the wheel.

"Hark'ee, fool, dost know of one called Brandon of Shene
hereabouts?"

"Aye, truly--truly!" he gasped.  "I do know--Sir Richard--passing
well.  Ad's bobs, my innards be all shook t'pieces and I do be
parched wi' thirst."

"Why then, up with you!" says I, and giving him my hand, aided
him back to the driving-seat.  Being there, he sighed, groaned
and cast a yearning eye towards his wallet.

"Parched wi' thirst I be!" he groaned.

"I've been the like ere now!" says I, and having gulped down what
remained of the fellow's beer I tossed the jar into the road,
whereat he beat his breast.

"My beer!" he wailed, "And I a-famishing wi' thirst!  O my beer!"

"There's sweet water i' the brook yonder!" says I.

"You be a chap wi' no bowels, for sure!" he cried.  "Aye, a hard
man you be!"

"'Tis a hard world," says I, "but 'tis no matter for that, tell
me of Sir Richard Brandon."

"Why then, you must know I am Myles Trueman--"

"And truly, man, there be miles of you, but 'tis no matter for
that either--what of Sir Richard?"

"I do be coming to he," says Trueman in surly tone.  "I do farm
Sir Richard's land--a hard man, see you, though just."

"So--here's another hard man."

"Though a just--aye, and a godly!  He hath restored our church
weathercock an' all an' set up a fine, large and fair pillory on
the green.  Lunnon couldn't show a finer, wi' stocks an' cucking-
stool complete and rare to fancy--"

"And findeth he the wherewithal to fill 'em?"

"That doth he!  Aha, there be never a vagrant, gipsy nor beggar
dare come anigh in Sir Richard's time.  And witches be few
hereabouts since old Mother Mottridge was ducked, and scolds and
shrews be fewer by reason o' the brank, d'ye see?"

"Hum!" says I, "a right proper gentleman this!"

"Aye," quoth Trueman, nodding until his fat cheeks quivered, "and
one that doth abhor vagrants and such-like vermin--"

"As myself?" says I.  To this Trueman answered nothing, but fell
a-fanning himself with his hat again, eyeing me warily the while.

"Art strange in these parts?" he questioned.

"Aye and no!"

"Hast met Sir Richard?"

"I have!"

"Aha!" quoth the fellow, nodding.  "He had ye whipped, belike?"

"He did so."

"For stealing of a fine, fat capon, belike?"

"Nay, 'twas for another matter.  But what of him, is he hale o'
body, rich and well esteemed, is he strong in friends and a power
at court yet?"

"No," says Trueman, flicking his plodding horses.  "Neither one
nor t'other!"

"How--not?" quoth I.  "And wherefore?"

"Because he's dead--"

"Dead!" says I, starting up.  "Dead?"

"Why look'ee, if he ain't dead--leastways--"  But here I seized
him by the throat and, twisting him round, shook him to and fro
till he choked:

"Rogue--damned rogue!" I cried 'twixt gnashing teeth.  "Will ye
mock me then!:

"No--no!" he gasped.

"Then tell me ye lied--confess!"

"Aye, aye--I'll confess--anything--anything ye will, master!"

"Then Sir Richard lieth snug in his manor of Shene--doth he not?
Aye or no?"

"Aye--aye, at Shene--at Shene!"  Hereupon I loosed him and,
falling back on the hay, found myself all breathless and shaking
as with an ague-fit.  And these tremors were within me as
without, since (by reason of this fellow's lying words) I had,
for one black moment, doubting God's justice, seen (as it were)
my countless anguished supplications for vengeance on mine enemy
so much vain breath, and this my toilsome journey a labour to no
purpose.  But now, bowing my head, I (who knew no forgiveness)
humbly prayed forgiveness of God for my doubting of God, and
passionately besought Him that He would cherish mine enemy and
save him in health.  And this to no other end but that I myself
might destroy him.

"His life, O God--give this man's life into mine hand!"  So
prayed I (in my vain pride and selfish blindness) as I jogged
along that sunny midsummer morn; and thereafter, my trembling
having passed from me, I stretched myself out amid the hay and
fell to blissful slumber.

Now to all such as reading this my narrative shall contemn and
abhor me for the purblind fool and poor, desperate wretch I was,
and who, living but for murder, could cry thus on God for the
blood of his fellow-man--to all such I would say that none can
despise me more utterly than I who write these words.  For life
since then hath learned me many truths and in some few things I
am, mayhap, a little wiser.

But, because I was proud and stubborn beyond belief, because hate
begetteth hate and evil--evil, so came I to consort and make
fellowship with pirates and the like rogues and to endure much of
harms and dangers as battle, shipwreck, prison and solitude;
until God (of His infinite mercy) brought me forth a better man
therefor and, in some sense, a more worthy.  All of the which I
have fully and faithfully recorded for such as shall trouble to
read this narrative to the end.

And so will I again to my story.


CHAPTER IV

TELLETH HOW I MET ONE ADAM PENFEATHER

I awoke to find the waggon at a standstill and Master Trueman
watching me with a scowl the while his plump fingers toyed
lovingly with his whip-stock; but as I roused, this hand crept up
to finger his several chins.

"Yonder lieth Lamberhurst!" quoth he sulkily, and nodded where,
in the valley below, was a village with a green wherein was a
placid pool shaded by trees; and about this green stood white-
walled cottages, many of them bowered in roses or honeysuckle to
the very thatch (right pleasant to the eye), while beyond these
again rose gables of barns or the pointed roofs of oasthouses. 
"Lamberhurst!" says Trueman again; whereon, having yawned and
stretched myself, I clambered down into the road.

"Well?" I questioned, seeing how he watched me, triple chin in
hand.

"Well," quoth he stoutly, "I be wondering what the likes o' you
should be wanting wi' the likes o' Sir Richard Brandon o' Shene?"

"Nought but this," says I, shaking the hay from my tattered
cloak, "I am come to watch him die, and the manner of it shall
mayhap be something slow and painful!" and speaking, I clenched
my right hand to a sunburnt fist.  Now looking on this clutching
hand, Trueman blinked and, saying no word, whipped his horses and
the heavy wain rumbled and creaked on its way.  But, when he had
gone some distance, he grinned at me over his shoulder and called
something whereof I caught the words "labour lost."  For a moment
I was minded to run after and demand his meaning; howbeit, in a
little, I turned and went down the hill very full of thought.

Reaching the village I found it not yet astir, for the clock of
the church tower showed the time was but half after four; and
now, leaning on my staff I stared up at the church tower with its
new weathercock, brave with gilding, agleam in the early sun, and
from thence turned my gaze where (hard beside the pool upon the
green) rose the grim shape of Sir Richard's new pillory.  Just
now it stood untenanted and I wondered idly what unhappy wight
was destined next to suffer there.  Thus stood I some while,
staring round me on this peaceful hamlet where all (save only
myself) forgot their cares awhile in blessed sleep; the wide
road, the gabled cottages, oast-house and fragrant rick yard--all
was as I minded it five weary years since:  nothing strange was
there saving only Sir Richard's hateful pillory, wherefore I
smote it with my staff and, cursing him that set it there, turned
away.

Now within a stone's-cast of the church was a goodly tavern with
a weatherbeaten signboard a-swing above the door, whereon was
painted what purported to be a leopard asleep and below the
following legend, viz.:

ROUSE ME NOT

and below this again:

YE CONISBY ARMS.

From this I glanced at the third finger of my left hand, which
was a battered signet ring that bore the semblance of another
sleeping leopard and the like inscription; and looking from the
sleeping leopard on the signboard to the sleeping leopard on my
ring, I fell to deep and gloomy thought.  Howbeit, rousing in a
while, I perceived a horse-trough hard by full of clean water,
and came thither minded to wash the dust and sweat from me.  But,
stooping, I paused and stood thus, staring down at the face that
scowled up at me; a face lean and haggard with wide, fierce eyes
agleam beneath knitted brows, a prominent nose and square chin
with short, peaked, golden beard; an unlovely face framed in
shaggy, yellow hair patched and streaked with silver; and
beholding lowering brow and ferocious mouth and jaw I stood
awhile marvelling at the ill-changes evil and hardship had
wrought in me.

For thus was it that I first beheld myself after five years of
slavery.

Having looked my fill, I nodded grimly at my watery image and
plunged my face and head within the trough to my great
refreshment, which done, I made shift to dry myself on my
tattered shirt.  Thereafter, coming to the broad oak settle
beside the tavern door, I sat down and fell to meditation.  But
now, moved by sudden impulse, I unbuckled the wallet at my girdle
and taking thence the strange dagger, unwound the neckerchief
that swathed it and began to examine the weapon, first carelessly
enough, then with growing interest and wonder.  The blade (as I
have told elsewhere) was triangular of form, very narrow and some
eight inches in length and exceeding sharp of point; but that
which drew and held my gaze was the wonder of its haft.  I have
seen and handled many fair weapons in my day, but never before or
since have I beheld such rare craftsmanship as went to the
chiselling of this hilt.  Of silver it was, wrought into the
shape of a standing woman, her feet poised upon the small,
chiselled cross-guard, her head forming the pommel; naked she
stood in languorous pose, arms raised and hands locked behind her
head.  The delicate chiselling of the features was worn somewhat
by handling and rough usage, but even so the evil beauty of the
face was plain and manifest, the wanton languor of the long eyes,
the mocking cruelty of the smiling mouth.  The longer I viewed
it, the more manifest became the nameless evil of the thing, so
that I was greatly minded to whirl it into the horse-pond and be
done with it.  But bethinking me of my destitution and not
doubting but that I might find a ready market for a thing so
rare, I lapped it up again and thrusting it back into my wallet,
stretched myself out upon the broad settle and presently fell
asleep.

But (even as I slept) methought I was back in torment.  I seemed
to hear again the crack of whips, the harsh cries of the drivers,
the shrill screams and curses, the long, groaning breaths with
the rattle and creak of the great oars as they swung ceaselessly
back and forth; nay, I could even feel the kick of the oar-shaft
that had escaped my fainting grasp.  So real was it all that I
waked groaning (as I had done many a time and oft), waked to find
the kindly sun making a glory about me and a blackbird hard by a-
piping most sweet to hear, while before me stood a little, thin
fellow in a broad-eaved, steeple-crowned hat, who peered at me
through narrowed eyes and poked at me with a stick.

"And how's the wind, shipmate?" he questioned.  I sat up and
scowled, whereupon he tucked the stick beneath an arm and stood
viewing me, chin in hand.  "You sleep mighty sound," says he,
"here I've stood a-poking at ye with my stick, d'ye see, and you
snore but the louder--or was it groans?"

"For the which poking I'm minded to throw you into the horse-
pond--"

"Why, that's as may be!" says he, falling back a step.  "But no
offence, shipmate."

"Then leave me in peace."  And I laid me down again.

"You sleep mighty sound," says he, "and your bed none so easy!"

"I've known worse!"

"Aye--the rowing-bench of a Spanish floating hell, shipmate--ha?"

At this, I started and turned to look at him again.  He was (as I
say) a little man and clad in suit of russet-brown (very trim and
sober), but at his hip he bore a long rapier or tuck, while in
his ears (which were trimmed to points in mighty strange fashion)
swung great, gold rings such as mariners do wear; his face was
lean and sharp and wide of mouth and lighted by very quick,
bright eyes, seeming to take in all things with swift-darting
glances.  A scar that ran from brow to chin lent to him a certain
hangdog air; as to his age, it might have been thirty or forty or
sixty, for, though he seemed vigorous and active, with smooth,
unwrinkled face, his hair was snow-white.

"Well, shipmate," he questioned, meeting my searching gaze, "and
how d'ye like me?"

"No whit!"

"Sink me, but that's plain enough!" says he, smiling ruefully. 
"So there's nought in me as draws you, then?"

"No!"

"'Tis pity, for I've a feeling we shall sail aboard ship together
yet."

"How should you know I've rowed aboard a Spanish ship?"

"You bear the mark, shipmate; as you lay a-groaning in your sleep
I took occasion to cast an eye over ye, d'ye see, and what wi'
the new-healed scars on your wrist, your sunburnt skin and the
desperate sink-or-swim look o' you I judged you new-broke from
slavery, and named a Spanish galleass at a venture, d'ye see."

"You are an observant man, it seems," says I, frowning.

"I have a way o' putting one and one together--'tis a trick I've
found useful now and then!"

"Ha!" says I, mighty scornful, "You'll be telling me my own name
next!"

"Why, as to that," says he, pinching his long, clean-shaven chin
thoughtfully, "how would Conisby suit?"

"Damned spy!" I cried, and caught him in my grip; the fellow
never so much as flinched, and there was something formidable in
his very quietude.

"Easy all, shipmate!" says he mildly and staring up at me eye to
eye.  "Use me kindly, for I'm a timid soul with a good heart,
meaning no offence."

"How learned ye my name?  What devilry is here?"

"None in the world, Lord love ye!  'Tis just my trick of adding
one and one, d'ye see?  There's the ring on your finger and the
signboard above you."

"And wherefore spy on a sleeping man?"

"Because I'm a lonely soul doth seek a comrade.  Because the
moment I clapped eyes on you I felt drawn to ye, and seeing the
scars on your wrist, knew 'em for shackle-marks--and 'twas a bond
betwixt us."

"How a bond?"

"Loose me, shipmate, and I'll show ye."  Which done, he bared a
long and sinewy arm, discovering thereon marks of old fetter-
sores like those upon my own.

"So you've slaved at an oar, then?" says I.

"Aye, shipmate!"

"Endured the shame of stripes and nakedness and filth?"

"Aye, shipmate.  And more, I've fought for my life on the Inca
Death-stone ere now, as you may see by my ears if you know aught
of the Maya Indians."

And here without so much as a "by your leave" he sat him down on
the bench beside me, and leaning forward began to trace idle
patterns in the dust with his stick.

"Shipmate," says he, "I'm a timid man--"

"As a snake," quoth I, "and as deadly!"

Here he stayed his drawing to glance at me askance, to sigh and
shake his head.  "You misjudge me," says he, "howbeit we'll say
cautious--a cautious man with an honest, kindly heart as yearns
to fellowship."

"And with a pistol 'neath each armpit!"

"True!" he nodded.  "I might ha' shot ye a moment since and
didn't--which doth but prove my words, for I'm one as never
harmed any man--without just cause--save once, and that--" here
he sighed, "was years agone.  And me a lonely man to this day. 
So 'tis I seek a comrade--a right man, one at odds wi' fortune
and the world and therefore apt to desperate ploys, one hath
suffered and endured and therefore scornful of harms and dangers,
one as knoweth the sea.  Now let that man pledge me the blood-
brotherhood, let him stand staunch and faithful blow fair, blow
foul, and I'll help him to a fortune greater than ever came out
of Manoa, El Dorado, or the Indies.  Come, what d'ye say,
friend?"

"I say sheer off and leave me to my sleep lest I mischief you."

"Ha' ye no lust for riches, then?"

"No more than I have to your company and I love that less and
less."

"'Tis pity!" says he, shaking his head.  "Aye, 'tis pity, for I
do like you more and more, such a fine blood-and-beef, dare-and-
be-damned, gibbet-like figure of a rogue, shipmate, as would
grace a cross-roads better than most, which is one reason I was
drawn to ye, d'ye see, I being a quiet soul--"

"And a pirate, like as not!"

"Easy, shipmate, easy.  Passion is an ill word to steer by.  And
I'm a lonely man as seeks a comrade--"

"And I'm a lonely man that loveth solitude, so e'en now will I go
seek it!" and I rose.

"Stay a bit, shipmate, haul your wind and listen!" says he,
laying hand on my arm.  "Stand in wi' me, blow high, blow low,
and I offer you--wealth untold--riches, fortune--"

"Tush!," says I, "empty things all."  At this his hold tightened
while his keen gaze held mine.

"More than this," says he slowly, "I offer you rank, honours,
power and mayhap--love, shipmate."

"Enough!" quoth I.  "You offer nought I desire."

"Why then," says he, "in the Fiend's name what would ye have?"

"Vengeance!" I answered, and shaking off his grasp I turned and
strode away along the dusty road.


CHAPTER V

HOW I CAME TO CONISBY SHENE

It being yet full early for my purpose I took to the woods, and
presently chancing upon a little stream that bubbled pleasantly
'mid shady willows, I sat myself down within this greeny bower
and fell to watching the hurrying waters of this brook and
hearkening to its drowsy murmur.  And lying thus, with the good
green world around me, the sunny air blithe with the mellow
piping of birds and the soft wind rustling the leaves about me--
what must I have in mind but bloodshed and the destruction of my
enemy, insomuch that reaching a stone from the brook I drew the
knife from my girdle and set about straightening the blade
thereof.

I was thus employed when all at once the leaves on the opposite
side of the brook were parted and a girl-child appeared.  For a
long moment we eyed each other across the brook, then all at once
her pretty lips curved to a smile.

"Little maid," says I, furtively thrusting the knife into my
belt, "art not afraid of me then?"

"Nay!" she answered, smiling yet and shaking her golden head.

"And why?"

"I do like your eyes, big man, kind eyes they be!"

"Are they?" says I, glancing from her smiling innocence into the
brook.

"Aye, and your voice--I do like that too--'tis low and soft--like
father's."

"And who's your father?"

"He be th' blacksmith."

"How old are you?"

"Seven, an' a big maid I be.  Will 'ee aid me 'cross t'brook,
now?"

So I lifted her over and there we sat, side by side, she laughing
and talking and I hearkening to her childish prattle with
marvellous great pleasure.  Presently I ventured to touch her
soft cheek, to stroke her curls, and finding she took this not
amiss, summoned courage to stoop and kiss her.

How long we had sat thus I know not, when I was aroused by a
shrill, harsh voice and turning, beheld a bony woman who peered
at us through the leaves.

"Susan Ann!" she cried.  "O you Susan, come away!  Come quick or
I'll run for your mother."

"The child is safe enough!" says I, frowning, but clasping the
small damsel closer within my arm.

"Safe?" cries the woman, turning on me in fury.  "Safe--aye, for
sooth, wi' a great, ill rogue the like o' you!  Loose her--loose
her or I'll scream and rouse the village on ye for a wild gipsy
wastrel that ye are!"  And here the old harridan railed at me
until the child whimpered for fear and even I blenched before the
woman's fierce aspect and shrewish tongue.  Then, while she
loaded me with abuse, a ceaseless torrent (and no lack of
breath), I kissed the little maid's tear-wetted cheek and,
setting her back across the brook, stood to watch until the child
and woman were lost to my sight.  Then I sat down, scowling at
the hurrying water, chin on fist, for my black humour, banished
awhile by the child's innocent faith in me, was returned and
therewith an added bitterness.  Scowling yet, I plucked forth my
knife and seizing my staff, set to trim and shape it to a
formidable weapon; and as I worked I cursed this woman deep and
oft, yet (even so) knew she had the right on't, for truly I was a
rogue, an outcast of unlovely look and unlovely ways, a desperate
fellow unfit for the company of decent folk, much less an
innocent child; and yet, remembering those fearless child-eyes,
the kiss of those pure child-lips I sighed amain betwixt my
muttered cursings.

At last, having trimmed my bludgeon to a nicety, I laid it by,
and sat brooding, the knife betwixt my knees; now a beam of sun
falling athwart the leaves lit upon the broad blade of the knife
and made of it a glory.  And beholding this and the hand that
grasped it, I took pleasure to heed how strong and sinewy were my
fingers and how the muscles bulged beneath the brown skin of my
forearm; and turning the glittering steel this way and that I
fell to joyous thought of my enemy and of my vengeance, now so
near.

"To-night!" says I to myself, "Death ever cometh with more
terrors in the dark!  To-night!"  But now, little by little, my
joy gave place to anger that the night must be so long a-coming;
and, glancing up, I cursed the sun that it must needs shine and
the gladsome day that it was not grim night.  And presently to
anger was added a growing fear lest mine enemy might (by some
hap) elude me at the eleventh hour--might, even now, be slipping
from my reach.  Now at this a sweat brake out on me, and leaping
to my feet I was minded to seek him out and end the matter there
and then.  "Why wait for to-night?" I asked myself.  "Surely in
the gladsome light of day Death findeth an added bitterness.  Why
wait for night, then?"

So I stood awhile debating within myself, then, catching up my
knotted bludgeon, I set off along the stream incontinent,
following a path I had trodden many a time when but a lad; a path
that led on through mazy thickets, shady dells and green coppices
dappled with sunlight and glad with the trilling melody of birds;
but ever as I went, before my eyes was a man who twisted in my
grasp and died, over and over again, and in my ears the sounds of
his agony.  And ever as I went trees reached out arms as if to
stay me and bushes stretched forth little, thorny fingers that
caught my garments as if to hinder me from my purpose.  But I
brushed them aside with my scarred arms or beat them down with my
heavy staff, o'er-leaping hedge and ditch and fallen tree until I
reached the highway, and even as I came there a distant clock
chimed the hour of ten.  I quickened my pace, twirling my staff
as I went, so that the two or three wayfarers I chanced to meet
drew from my neighbourhood and eyed me mightily askance.  Having
gone thus some mile or so, I came to a wall that bordered the
road, a high and mossy wall, and following this, to a pair of
gates set well back from the highway, with pillars of stone each
surmounted by a couchant leopard carved in the stone.  Now these
gates were of iron, very lofty and strong and fast shut, but
besides these was a smaller gate or postern of wood hard by the
gatehouse where stood a lusty fellow in fair livery, picking his
teeth with a straw and staring at the square toes of his shoes. 
Hearing me approach he glanced up and, frowning, shook his head
and waved me away.

"Here's no road for the likes o' you!" said he while I was yet at
some distance.  "Off wi' you!"  Howbeit, seeing I still advanced
he clapped to the gate, and letting fall the bar, cursed me
roundly through the grille.

"I would see Sir Richard Brandon!" says I.

"Then ye can't--nowise.  So be off and be danged!"

"Open the gate!" says I.

"Be hanged for a murderous-looking rogue, a lousy thief, a
wastrel and a hangdog knave!" says he all in a breath.

"All true enough!" says I.  "And now, open the gate!"

"Be danged for a prigging gipsy--'A Gad!  I'll have ye clapped i'
the pillory for a black-visaged clapper-claw!"

"Unbar!" says I, "Or it shall go plaguy ill wi' you when I come
in."

At this he spat upon me through the grille and chuckled.  Now,
glancing about, I espied a stone hard by about the bigness of a
man's head and, laying by my staff, I wrenched the stone from
where it lay and, raising it aloft, hove it with all my strength;
whereon the gate crashed open so suddenly as to catch the fellow
a buffet that laid him sprawling on his back, and as he strove to
rise I pinned him down with my staff and kicked him heartily.

"And now," says I, "up with you and bring me to your master."

But or ever he could do aught but groan and rub his hurts, I
heard the sound of approaching hoof-strokes and, turning, beheld
a lady bravely mounted who galloped furiously towards us down the
avenue.  When almost upon us she swung her powerful beast aside
and, checking him with strong wrist, sat looking down at me from
the shade of her plumed hat.

"What is this?" she demanded, and her eyes swept over me grey and
wide and fearless.  "Who--who are you?"

Now at the sound of her voice so rich and wonder-sweet, I felt
strangely abashed and, finding no word, turned from her to scowl
down at the man I had pinned beneath my broken shoe.

"Who are you?" she questioned again.  "Speak!"

"A rogue!" says I, keeping my head averted.  "A creeper o'
hedges!"

"Ah--is't you?" said she in softer tone.  "I saw you for a moment
by lightning-flash near the gibbet.  You are my man o' the woods,
and, sir, I owe you much--very much--indeed, sir, if--"

"I am no 'sir'!" quoth I shortly.

"Gregory," says she, looking down on the fellow 'neath my foot. 
"Gregory, get up!"

"Gregory," says I, "stir not!"

"Sir, would you hurt my servant?" says she, knitting her slender
black brows.

"I' faith!" I nodded.  "The uncivil rogue forced me to burst open
the gate."

"And why are you here?  Who are you?  What is your name?" cried
she a little breathlessly, and I wondered at the fixed intensity
of her gaze.

"Gregory," says I, taking my foot from his middle but threatening
him with my staff, "I am come for no traffic with maids, so rise
up and bring me to your master."

"Nay," groans the fellow, turning up his eyes, "'tis thing
impossible, here's only my lady--"

"And I seek your master--is he within?"

"Nay," says Gregory, flinching beneath my staff, "as my lady
shall tell 'ee--he is not here."

"Ha!" quoth I.  "That will I see for myself."  But as I turned to
stride up the avenue, my lady wheeled her horse, barring my way.

"Whither go you?" she demanded, her eyes holding mine.

"To the house for Sir Richard.  I have been at some small pains
to gain speech with him."

"To what end?"

"Why truly," I answered, leaning upon my staff and viewing her
eye to eye, "'tis a matter of vital moment, aye--in a manner of
speaking--'tis a matter of life and death betwixt us."  Now as I
stood thus I could not but be conscious of her glowing, vigorous
beauty, her body's noble shape and the easy grace of her as she
sat her fretting horse, swaying to his every movement.  And to
me, in my rags, she seemed no woman but a goddess rather, proud,
immaculate and very far removed; and yet these proud lips could
(mayhap) grow soft and tender, these clear eyes that met mine so
fearlessly--

The staff was wrenched from my loosened grasp and Gregory,
leaping to his feet, fetched me therewith staggering blow on
blow, shouting with his every stroke:

"Ho--Peter!  Roger!  Will!  Ho--hither, lads all!  Loose the
dogs--hither to me, 'a God's name!"  But, though mused with
blows, I rushed in blindly and, closing with the fellow, got him
fairly by the throat and shook him to and fro.  And now was I
minded to choke him outright, but, even then, spied a cavalier
who spurred his horse against me.  Hereupon I dashed the
breathless Gregory aside and turned to meet my new assailant, a
spruce young gallant he, from curling lovelock to Spanish boots. 
I remember cursing savagely as his whip caught me, then, or ever
he could reach me again, I sprang in beneath the head of his
rearing horse and seizing the rein close by the bridle began to
drag and wrench at the bit.  I heard shouts and a woman's cry of
fear, but I strove only the fiercer, while up and up reared the
great roan horse, snorting in terror, his forelegs lashing
wildly; above tossing mane the eyes of his rider glared down at
me as, laughing exultant, I wrenched savagely at the bridle
until, whinnying with pain and terror, the great beast, losing
his balance, crashed over backwards into the dust.  Leaping clear
of those desperate, wild-thrashing hooves, I found myself beset
by divers fellows armed with staves, who closed upon me,
shouting; and above these, her eyes wide, her full, red lips
close-set, my lady looked down on me and I (meeting that look)
laughed, even as her fellows rushed at me:

"Go cosset your pretty springald, wench!"  But even then, dazed
and half-blinded by a hail of blows, I staggered, sank to my
knees, struggled up again, smiting with bare fists.  A flame
seemed to flash before my eyes, a taste of blood was on my
tongue, and all sounds grew faint and far away as, stumbling
blindly, I threw up my arms, tripped and plunged down and down
into an engulfing darkness, and knew no more.


CHAPTER VI

OF MY SHAMEFUL SUFFERINGS AND HOW I WAS DELIVERED THEREFROM

I awoke with a sound in my ears like the never-ceasing surge and
hiss of waters, a sound that waxed ever louder.  Hearkening to
this, I presently sought to move and wondered, vaguely uneasy, to
find this impossible:  I strove now to lift my right hand, found
it fast held, tried my left and found it in like case, and so
became conscious of something that gripped me about the throat,
and ever my wonder and unease grew.  And now, opening my eyes,
the first thing they lighted on was a small pool of blood and
beyond this a battered turnip, and beyond this, the carcass of a
dead cat, and beyond this again, a pair of trim, buckled shoes,
cotton stockings, wide breeches and a broad belt where swung a
tuck or rapier prodigiously long of blade; in a while (my eyes
ranging higher yet) I beheld a thin face scarred from mouth to
eyebrow, a brown face with bright, very quick eyes and strange
ears, they being cut to points like a dog's ears.  Now looking at
this face, it seemed to me in hazy fashion that somewhere and at
some time I had seen such a face before.  All this while, the
noise I have likened to the sea had been growing louder, so that
I began to recognise voices and even words, and, lifting my head
as well as I might (by reason of the thing that gripped my
throat), I saw faces all about me--they hemmed me in on every
side and stretched away to the churchyard wall.

Then, all at once, the knowledge of my situation rushed upon me;
I was in the pillory.

"Huroor!  'E be a-coming' round!" cried a voice.

"Time, too!" shouted a great, strapping fellow near by.  "'Tis
sinful shame to waste good bad-eggs on rogue as knoweth not when
'e do be hit!  He be a mark as babe couldn't miss--a proper big
'un!"  So saying, the fellow let fly an egg at me, the which,
striking the board within an inch of my face, filled the air with
suffocating stench.

This was a signal for me to become a target for all the garbage
of the village.  And now, indeed, good cause had I to be thankful
for my thick mane of hair which (in some sort) saved me from
sundry cuts and bruises, howbeit my face was soon clotted with
blood and filth.

Vain were it to tell all the frenzy of rage that possessed me as
I stood thus helpless against my howling tormentors, chief of
whom was the great fellow I have mentioned, who (by reason of
height and length of arm) struck me oftenest; once indeed when
(beside myself with fury) I raised my head to curse him, he took
me a blow in the mouth with some vile missile that set my very
gums a-bleeding.

"Lord love ye, shipmate--that's the spirit!" said a voice below
me, "But keep the wind o' them--don't let 'em rake ye--douse your
figure-head.  Lie low, shipmate, lie low and trust to your
comrade Adam Penfeather--and that's me.  Patience is the word!"

Looking whence the voice came I beheld the man with whom I had
talked that morning; now as our glances met, one of his bright
eyes closed slowly and, nodding twice, he turned and elbowed his
way through the crowd.  Small liking had I for this fellow, but
with his departure a sense of loneliness gripped me and needs
must I lift my head to stare after him, whereupon a rotten egg
struck me above the eye, causing a most intolerable smart; at
this moment, too, the great fellow swung a cat's carcass by the
tail, but, or ever he could hurl this stinking missile, a hand
clouted him heavily over the ear from behind, tumbling his hat
off, whereupon he turned, bellowing with rage, and smote his
nearest neighbour with the foul thing meant for me.  In an
instant all was uproar around these two as the crowd, forgetting
me, surged about them.  Thus for some while, during which the
fight raged, I was left unmolested and looked hither and thither
amid the swaying throng for this fellow, Adam Penfeather, but he
was vanished quite.

At length, the big fellow having sufficiently trounced his
opponent, the crowd betook itself (and very joyously) to my
further baiting and torment.  Now as I hung thus in my shame and
misery, faint with my hurts and parched with cruel thirst, my
gaze lighted upon a small, bony man--a merry-eyed fellow with
wide, up-curving mouth, who laughed and jested continually; it
was as he stooped for some missile or other that his eye met
mine, and in that bright eye methought I read a sudden pity.

"O cull," says I hoarsely, "a mouthful o' water--"

"Pal," says he, winking, "all's bowmon!"  Whereupon he turned and
vanished in the crowd and I, burning in a fever of thirst, panted
for his return, straining my eyes for sight of him; then, as he
came not, I groaned and drooped my head, and lo! even then he was
before me bearing a tin pannikin full of water.  This in hand, he
mounted the steps of the pillory and, despite the jeers and
hootings of the crowd, was lifting the life-giving water to my
eager lips when forth leapt the big fellow and sent water and
pannikin flying with a savage blow of his fist.

"None o' that, peddler!" he roared.  And now, as I groaned and
licked at bleeding lips with swollen tongue, the little man
turned (quick as a flash), tripped up the great fellow's heels
and, staying for no more, made off through the crowd, that gave
him passage, howling its acclaim.

The afternoon dragged wearily on and, what with the suffocating
stench of the filth that plastered me, what with heat and dust
and agonising thirst, my suffering grew almost beyond endurance;
a deadly nausea seized me and I came nigh to swooning.  But now,
in this my great extremity, of a sudden, from somewhere on the
outskirts of the crowd rose a shrill cry of "Fire!" the which
cry, being taken up by others, filled the air with panic, the
crowd melted as if by magic until the village green and the road
were quite deserted.  All this I noted but dimly (being more dead
than alive) when I became conscious of one that spake in my ear.

"Stand by, shipmate, stand by!  There's never a rogue left--all
run to the fire--stand by to slip your moorings!"

"Let be," I groaned, "I'm a dead man!"

"Then here's that shall make ye quick," says this fellow
Penfeather, dangling a great key before my swimming eyes. 
"Here's freedom from your devil's trap and a plaguy time I've had
to come by it."

"Then for the love o' God--let me out," I groaned.

"Easy all, shipmate!" says he, turning the key upon his finger. 
"For look'ee now, here's me, (a timid man) run no small risk this
last half-hour and all for you.  Now a bargain's a bargain,
you'll agree?"

"Well?" says I, faintly.

"Why then, shipmate, if I free ye of your bonds, wilt be my
comrade sworn?  Aye or no?"

"No!" says I.  "Plague take ye that bargain with dying man.  No!"

"Why then," sighs he, "here's a good rick ablaze, here's John
Purdy the beadle wi' his head broke, and here's me in a sweat,
alack--and all to no purpose, since needs must you in your
bilboes bide."

"Do but get me a draft of water!" I pleaded.

"Nary a drop!" says he, spinning the key on his finger under my
nose, "Nor yet a foaming stoup o' good Kentish ale--nut brown--"

"Ha, rogue--rogue!" I panted, 'twixt parched lips.  "I'll yet--
avenge this torment--an' I live!"

"The legs of a man," says he, "are a vain thing and his strength
likewise, and as to vengeance, shipmate, well--how goeth your
vengeance as be more to ye than fortune or riches?"  Here he
paused, but I held my peace and he continued, "Here's you now,
you that was so mighty and fierce--aye, a very hell-fire roarer--
here's that same you a-hanging here a very helpless, pitiful
fool, shipmate, and thirsty 'twould seem--"

Here I groaned again.

"And one not over sweet!" says he, stopping his nose.

Hereupon I cursed him, though faintly, and he comes a step
nearer.

"'Tis said my Lady Brandon and her gallant Sir Rupert Dering--him
you overthrew, shipmate--do mean to come and take a look at you
anon, though 'tis shame you should be made a raree show--burn
me!"

Hereupon, I fell into a sudden raging fury, striving so
desperately against my bonds that the devilish engine wherein I
stood shook and rattled again; but I strove to no purpose, and so
presently hung there spent and bruised and breathless whiles
Penfeather spun the key on his finger and sighed:

"Shipmate," says he, "wherefore irk yourself wi' bonds?  Say but
the word and I'll deliver ye, bring ye to safe harbourage and
cherish ye with much good ale.  Be persuaded, now."

"Why then," groans I, "give me but until to-morrow to do what I
will--and I'm yours!"

"Done!" says he, and forthwith set key to padlock; but scarce had
he freed the head-board than he falls a-cursing 'neath his
breath.  "Easy, comrade, easy!" quoth he, softly.  "Bide still
awhile--hither cometh yon beefy fool back again--so will I make
show of miscalling ye till he be gone."  The which he did
forthwith, giving me "scurvy rogue" and the like.  Now, lifting
my head, whom should I behold but that same tall fellow had been
my chief tormenter, and who now hasted over the green towards us.

"It be now't but Farmer Darrell's rick ablaze," says he to
Penfeather, "so let 'un burn, says I, Farmer Darrell be no friend
o' mine.  So I be come to sport wi' yon big rogue awhile." 
Herewith he stooped for some missile to cast at me; but now I
straightened my back, the head-board gave and, ere the fellow was
aware, I was creeping swiftly upon him.  Taken thus by surprise
small chance had he, for, leaping on him, I bore him over on his
back and kneeling on him, buried my fingers in his throat.  And
so I choked him (right joyfully) till Penfeather gripped my arm.

"Lord love me!" cries he, "Will ye kill the fool?"

"That will I!"

"And hang for him?"

"Nay--he's scarce worth it."

"Then, devil burn ye--loose his windpipe!"  So I loosed the
fellow's throat, and, despite his feeble kicks, began to drag him
over the grass.

"What now, comrade?" says Penfeather.  "Sink me, what now?"

"Watch and see!"  So I brought the fellow to the pillory wherein
I set him, and plucking the key from Penfeather, locked him there
in my stead; which done I kicked him once or twice, and having
found the cat's carcass made shift to hang the stinking thing
about his neck; then tossing the key into the pond, I took to my
heels and left the fellow groaning mighty dismal.


CHAPTER VII

HOW I HEARD TELL OF BLACK BARTLEMY'S TREASURE

Now scarce was I clear of the village than I was again seized of
a deadly sickness and vertigo so that I stumbled and was like to
fall, but that Penfeather propped me with his shoulder.  In this
fashion I made shift to drag myself along, nor would he suffer me
stay or respite (maugre my weakness) until, following the brook,
he had brought me into the green solitude of the woods.

Here then I sank down, sucking up the cool, sweet water 'twixt
parched lips, drinking until Penfeather stayed me, lest I should
do myself hurt thereby.  Thereafter, from strength reviving, I
bathed my divers wounds (the which, though painful, were of small
account) and fell to cleansing my spattered garments as well as I
might.

"So we're to be comrades, after all!" says Penfeather, watching
me where he sat hard by.

"Aye--to-morrow!"

"And how goeth vengeance, shipmate?"  At this I turned on him
with clenched fist.  "Nay, easy does it," says he, never budging,
"for if 'twas the folly of vengeance brought ye in the
peccadille, 'twas your comrade Adam Penfeather got ye out again--
so easy all!"

"'Twas you fired the rick, then?"

"None other!"

"'Tis a hanging matter, I've heard!"

"Why a man must needs run some small risk for his comrade d'ye
see--"

"Then, Adam Penfeather, I'm your debtor."

"Nay," says he, "there be no debts 'twixt comrades o' the
Brotherhood, 'tis give and take, share and share!"  And speaking,
he drew forth a purse and emptying store of money on the grass
betwixt us, divided it equally and pushed a pile of silver and
copper towards me.

"And what's this?" I demanded.

"Share and share, comrade!"

"But I'm no comrade o' yours till after to-night."

"Aha!" says he, pinching his long chin.  "Is't more vengeance
then?"

"Keep your money till it be earned!" I muttered.

"Sink me--and there's pride for ye!" says he.  "Pride which is a
vain thing and vengeance which is a vainer.  Lord love me,
shipmate, 'tis plain to see you're o' the quality, 'spite your
rags--blue blood, high-breeding, noblesse oblige and all the rest
on't."

"Stint your gab!" says I, scowling.

"'Tis writ large all over ye," he went on placidly enough.  "As
for me, I'm but a plain man wi' no time for vengeance and no whit
o' pride about me anywhere.  What I says to you is, get to
wind'ard o' vengeance--nay, heave it overboard, shipmate, and
you'll ride the easier, aye and sweeter, and seek something more
useful--gold, for instance, 'tis a handy thing, I've heard say--
so ha' done wi' vengeance!"

"No!" says I, frowning.  "Not--nay, not for all Bartlemy's
treasure!"

"Aha!" quoth he softly.  "So you've heard tell of it then, along
the Spanish Main?"

"I heard tell of it last night in a cave from a sailor-man."

"How?" says he starting and with keen eyes glancing hither and
thither.  "A sailor-man--hereabouts?"

"Damme!" says I, "the country seems thick o' sailor-men."

"Ha!  D'ye say so?  And what like was this one?"

"A comely rogue that sang strange song."

"Ah!" said Penfeather, his eyes narrowing.  "A song, says you--
and strange--how strange?"

"'Twas all of dead men and murder!"

"D'ye mind any line o't, shipmate?"

"Aye, the words of it went somewhat like this:

"'Some on a knife did part wi' life
And some a bullet took O!
But--'"

Now here, as I stopped at a loss, my companion took up the rhyme
almost unconsciously and below his breath:

"'But three times three died plaguily
A wriggling on a hook O!'

"Comrade!" says he in the same low voice, "Did ye see ever among
these mariners a one-handed man, a tall man wi' a hook in place
of his left hand--a very bright, sharp hook?"  And now as
Penfeather questioned me, he seized my wrist and I was amazed at
the iron grip of him.

"No!" I answered.

"Nay," says he, loosing his hold, "how should you--he's dead,
along o' so many on 'em!  He's done for--him and his hook, devil
burn him!"

"'A hook both long and stout and strong,
They died by gash o' hook O!'"

"Ah!" I cried.  "So that was the kind of hook!"

"Aye!" nodded Penfeather, "That was the kind.  A bullet's bad, a
knife's worse, but a steel hook, shipmate, very sharp d'ye see,
is a death no man should die.  Shipmate, I've seen divers men
dead by that same hook--torn and ripped d'ye see--like a dog's
fangs!  I'd seen many die ere then, but that way--'twas an ill
sight for queasy stomachs!"

"And he--this man with the hook is dead, you say?"

"And burning in hell-fire!"

"Are you sure?"

"I killed him, shipmate!"

"You!" says I.

"I, shipmate.  We fought on a shelf o' rock high above the sea,
my knife agin his knife and hook--'twas that same hook gave me
this scar athwart my jaw--but as he struck, I struck and saw him
go spinning over and over, down and down and splash into the sea. 
And for three days I watched that bit o' shore, living on shell-
fish and watching for him, to make sure I had finished him at
last."

"And these other rogues?" says I.

"What like were they, shipmate?"  Hereupon I described (as fully
as I might) the three sailor-men I had fought with in the hedge-
tavern (albeit I made no mention of the maid), while Penfeather
listened, nodding now and then and pinching at his long chin. 
"And this other fellow," says he, when I had done, "this fellow
that sang--d'ye know if his name chanced to be Mings--Abnegation
Mings, comrade?"

"The very same!" says I.

"Strange!" quoth Penfeather, and thereafter sat staring gloomily
down into the rippling waters of the brook for a while.  "I
wonder?" says he at last.  "I wonder?"

"What think ye shall bring these fellows so far from the coast--
what should they be after?"

"Me, shipmate!"

"You!" says I for the second time, marvelling at the strange
quiet of him.  "And what would they have of you?"

"My life, shipmate, and one other thing.  What that thing is I
will tell you when we have drunk the blood-brotherhood!  But now
it behoveth me to be a-going, so I'll away.  But when you shall
seek me, as seek me ye will, shipmate, shalt hear of me at the
Peck-o'-Malt tavern, which is a small, quiet place 'twixt here
and Bedgebury Cross.  Come there at any hour, day or night, and
say 'The Faithful Friend,' and you shall find safe harbourage. 
Remember, comrade, the word is 'The Faithful Friend,' and if so
be you can choose your time--night is better."  So saying, he
arose.

"Wait!" says I, pointing to the coins yet lying on the grass. 
"Take your money!"

"'Tis none o' mine," says he, shaking his head.  "Keep it or
throw it away--'tis all one to me!"  Then he went away through
the wood and, as he went, I thought he walked with a new and
added caution.


CHAPTER VIII

HOW I FELL IN WITH ONE GOD-BE-HERE, A PEDDLER

Evening was at hand as I reached a little alehouse well away from
the road and pleasantly secluded by trees:  thither came I,
fondling Penfeather's money in my pocket, for I was again
mightily sharp set.  But all at once I stopped, for, passing the
open lattice, I heard loud laughter and a merry voice:

"And there, believe me, gossips" (quoth this voice), "as sure as
this be beef--aye, and good beef and cooked to a turn, mistress--
there's this great, lob-lolly, hectoring Tom Button fast i' the
pillory--and by this good ale, a woeful sight, his eyes blacked,
his nose a-bleeding, his jerkin torn and a dead cat about his
neck, oho--aha!  Tom Button--big Tom, fighting Tom so loud o'
tongue and ready o' fist--Tom as have cowed so many--there is he
fast by the neck and a-groaning, see ye, gossips, loud enough for
six, wish I may die else!  And the best o' the joke is--the key
be gone, as I'm a sinner!  So they needs must break the lock to
get him out.  Big Tom, as have thrashed every man for miles." 
But here merry voice and laughter ceased and a buxom woman thrust
smiling face from the window, and face (like her voice) was
kindly when she addressed me:

"What would ye, young master?"

"A little food, mistress," says I, touching my weather-worn hat
and pulling it lower over my bruised and swollen features.

"Why come in, master, come in--there be none here but my Roger
and Godby the peddler, as knoweth everyone."

So I entered forthwith a small, snug chamber, and seating myself
in the darkest corner, acknowledged the salutations of the two
men while the good-looking woman, bustling to and fro, soon set
before me a fine joint of roast beef with bread and ale, upon
which I incontinent fell to.

The two men sat cheek by jowl at the farther end of the table,
one a red-faced, lusty fellow, the other, a small, bony man who
laughed and ate and ate and laughed and yet contrived to talk all
the while, that it was a wonder to behold.

"Was you over to Lamberhurst way, master?" says he to me, all at
once.

"Aye!" I nodded, busy with the beef.

"Why then, happen ye saw summat o' the sport they had wi' the big
gipsy i' the pillory--him as 'saulted my Lady Brandon and nigh
did for her ladyship's coz?"

"Aye," says I again, bending over my platter.

"'Tis ill sport to bait a poor soul as be helpless, I think--nay
I know, for I've stood there myself ere now, though I won't say
as I didn't clod this fellow once or twice to-day myself--I were
a rare clodder in my time, aha!  Did you clod this big rogue,
master?"

"No!"

"And wherefore not?"

"Because," says I, cutting myself more beef, "I happened to be
that same rogue."  Here Roger the landlord stared, his buxom wife
shrank away, and even the talkative peddler grew silent awhile,
viewing me with his shrewd, merry eyes.

"Aha!" says he at last, "'Twas you, was it?"

"It was!"

"And why must ye 'sault a noble lady?"

"I never did!"

"Gregory swears to it."

"Gregory's a liar!"

"Which is true enough--so he be!" nodded the landlord.

"And a cruel-hard man!" added his wife.  "But Lord, young master,
they do ha' used ye ill--your poor face, all bruised and swole it
be!"

"Which it be!" nodded Roger.  "Likewise cut!  Which be ill for
'ee though--like Godby here--I won't say but what I moughtn't ha'
took a heave at ye, had I been there, it being nat'ral-like to
heave things at such times, d'ye see?"

"Very natural!" says I.

"And then why," questioned the little peddler, "why break open
the wicket-gate?"

"To get in!"

"Aha!" quoth Godby the peddler, winking roguish eye, "On the
prigging lay perchance, cull, or peradventure the mill-ken? 
Speak plain, pal, all's bowmon!"

"I'm no flash cull," says I, "neither buzz, file, mill-ken nor
scamperer."

"Mum, pal, mum!  I'm no more flash than you be, though I've no
love for the harmon-becks as Roger here will tell 'ee.  A peddler
be I and well liked--wish I may swing else!  Aye, well beloved is
kind Godby, specially by wenches and childer--aha, many's the
yard o' riband and lace, the garters, pins, ballads, gingerbread
men, pigs and elephants, very fair gilt, as they've had o' kind
Godby, and all for love!  And yet, plague and perish it--here's
me warned off my pitch, here's me wi' the damned catchpolls on my
heels, and all along o' this same Gregory Bragg--rot him!"

"As to all that, I know not," says I, "but this I'll swear to,
you are a man, Godby the peddler, and one with a bold and kindly
heart inside you."

"How so?" he questioned, his bright eyes all of a twinkle.  "How
so, my bully boy?"

"That pannikin of water."

"Which you didn't get, my cock's-body lad!"

"Which you were man enough to bring me."

"Which Tom Button did ye out of!"

"Which you knocked him down for!"

"Which is Gospel-true, Roger and Cicely, 'twas a neat throw.  Tom
bumped heavy--aye, uncommon flat were Tom, let me eat worms
else!"

"For all of the which," says I, cutting more beef, "I ask you now
to drink a stoup of ale with me."

"Wi' all my heart!" cries the peddler.

"Then," says I, laying my money on the table, "let us all drink
in fellowship, for ale, like fellowship, is a goodly thing and
good things be rare in this world!"

"And that's true, o' conscience!" smiled the buxom Cicely.

"And ye'll find no better brew than our own!" quoth Roger.

"And that I'll swear to!" laughed the peddler.  "Cram me wi'
spiders else!"

So the good ale was brought and Godby, lifting his tankard,
smiled and nodded over the creamy foam:

"Here's a griping colic to every catchpoll, harmon-beck and the
like vermin 'twixt this and London town!" says he, and lifted the
ale to his lips; but suddenly he sat it down untasted and rose: 
"Friends, I'm took!" quoth he.  "See yonder!"  As he spake the
narrow doorway was darkened and two rough fellows entered, and
each bore a formidable bludgeon.

"Aye," says one, a big, surly-voiced fellow, "here be us,
peddler, and there be you, so best come easy--an' no tricks,
mind!"

"Then easy does it, lads!" says Godby, no whit abashed.  "No lamb
could come milder than Godby, aye lambs, doves and babes is
roaring lions compared wi' Godby--so easy does it.  What is't
this time, codgers?"

"Fower hours i' the pillory, three i' the stocks, and a month in
Maidstone jail and that's what!"

"And enough too!" growled Roger the landlord, clenching hairy
fist and glancing furtively towards a rusty sword suspended above
the hearth.

"Let be, Roger--I'm a lamb!" sighed the peddler.  "And I wouldn't
ha' you in trouble by me--besides this room o' yourn, though
snug, ain't fit for struggling nor striving!  So, friends--good-
bye!"  Then he turned away between his two captors, but as he did
so, his bright eyes for one moment met mine and in his look I
read appeal.

Now scarce were they gone when I got me to my feet, whereat the
landlord, Roger, did the like:

"What's to do?" he questioned, glancing yearningly from me to the
rusty sword.

"Why now," says I, counting out my reckoning, "bide you here--for
your good wife's sake."

"Aye, do now, Roger!" she pleaded.  "'Twould be ruination to us!"

"Moreover," says I, reaching for my cudgel, "they are but two, so
bide you here."  Then I stepped forth of the tavern and very soon
came up with the two fellows, their prisoner walking betwixt them
meekly enough.  But, as I approached, they halted all three.

"And what be you after?" demanded the surly fellow.

"You!"

"And what d'ye want of us--hey?"

"Your prisoner!"

"Ha!  And what for him?"

"I've a mind to him!"

"O!  Ye have, eh?"

"I have.  Do I get him?"

"Be curst for a black, ugly rogue."

"That's no answer!"

"'Tis all you'll get o' we, save 'ard knocks!" says the man,
spitting in his hand and taking firm grip of his bludgeon.

"Why then I must take him!" says I.

"Try and be damned!" roared the fellow.  "Ha--look alive, Jem!" 
And whirling up his staff, he made at me amain; but I sprang
aside and, as his rush carried him past, my answering stroke
caught him fairly 'twixt wrist and elbow and his cudgel spun
harmlessly into the hedge; breathing curses he sought to close
with me, but I, keeping my distance, smote him (very blithely)
how and where I would until he (his arm useless), misliking my
bludgeon-play and reading no mercy in my look, very wisely betook
him to his heels.  Hereupon I turned to find the little peddler
sitting astride his man's neck and his fist against the fellow's
nose:

"Smell it, Job!" he was saying.  "Smell it, lad, 'tis the fist of
a man as would be a-groping for your liver if it weren't for the
respect I do bear your old mother--skin me else!  So thank your
old mother, lad, first as you've got a liver and second for a-
saving o' that same liver.  And now, get up, Job--begone, Job,
arter your pal, and tell folk as kind Godby, though sore tempted,
never so much as set finger on your liver, and all along o' your
good old mother--away wi' ye!"  So the fellow got him to his legs
(mighty rueful) and sped away after his comrade.

"Pal," says the little peddler, reaching out and grasping my
hand, "here's full quittance for that pannikin o' water as you
never got!  And now--what's the word?"

"Now," says I, "let us go back and drink the good ale!"

"Pal," quoth the peddler, with a flash of white teeth, "wi' all
my heart!"

Thus we presently returned to the little tavern and found there
Roger the landlord, the rusty sword in one brawny fist, his wife
holding fast to the other.  At sight of us he dropped the weapon
and roared joyously, and Cicely, running to us, clasped our hands
in hearty welcome.  So we sat down all four, and while we quaffed
the ale Godby described our late encounter with great exactness.

"Pal," says he thereafter, reaching across the table to grip my
hand again, "what might your name be?"

"Martin."

"Why then, Martin, have ye any friends or kin?"

"None!"

"No more have I, and look now, this Kent country is no fit place
for you or me arter to-day!  So what I says is, lets you and me
pad it, pal--the road, lad--the good high-road, aha!  How say ye,
Martin?"

"No!"

"Why no, pal?"

"Because, after to-night, if I chance to be neither dead nor in
prison, I'm for shipboard."

"'Tis an ill life, pal!"

"Why, life is an ill thing!" says I.

"Nay, look'ee, Martin, life may be worth whiles now and then--
aye, lad, there be times, good times."

"What times?"

"Well, Martin, to lie snug 'neath hedge o' star-time, when your
fire's low an' the stars peep down through leaves at a man--wink,
they go, and wink, wink, till, watching 'em, a man forgets his
troubles awhile and knows something o' content.  Aha, many's the
time o' star-time they have winked me and my troubles asleep. 
Then there's wakings o' bird-time, wi' the sun up, dew a-sparkle
and life calling within ye and without, and the birds--O the
birds, Martin--a-filling the world wi' brave songs o' hope new-
born like the day!  Ah, many's the morn the birds ha' waked me
and I as merry as any grig--Lord love their beaks and wings! 
There's hay-time o' the evening full o' soft, sweet smells--aye,
sweet as lad's first kiss; there's wheat-time at noon wi' the
ears a-rustle and the whitt-whitt o' scythe and whetstone;
there's night, Martin, and the long, black road dipping and a-
winding, but wi' the beam o' light beyond, lad--the good light as
tells o' journey done, of companionship and welcomes and belike--
eyes o' love, with--"

"Lusty ale!" quoth Roger, setting three new-filled pipkins before
us.  "And none better nor ourn--eh, wife?"

"That I do swear to, Roger!" laughed the peddler, "Choke me else! 
But now, as to the sea, Martin pal--'tis a dog's life!"

"You know the sea, then?"

"Like my hand, Martin, and all along o' my father's godliness.  A
fine, big man he was and devout as he was lusty.  Having begot me
his next duty was to name me, and O pal, name me he did!  A name
as no raskell lad might live up to, a name as brought me into
such troublous faction ashore that he packed me off to sea.  And
if you ax me what name 'twas, I'll answer ye bold and true--'God-
be-here Jenkins,' at your service, though Godby for short and
'twixt friends."

Now the more I saw of this little peddler the better I liked him,
so that the hour was late when, having supped excellently well, I
rose to take my leave.

"If you must be away, young master," said the buxom Cicely,
"don't 'ee forget there be ever a welcome for 'ee at the Hop-
pole--eh, Roger?"

"There is so!" nodded the landlord.  "Likewise a pipkin of ale
and a bite and all gratus to a pal!"

"And look 'ee, Martin my cove," quoth the peddler, grasping my
hand, "there be ever and always the good high-road leading on and
away to better things, so happen ye should change your mind, seek
me here 'twixt this and dawn, if to-morrow ye shall hear o' Godby
at the Fox at Spelmonden.  So luck go wi' ye, my bien cull."

"And you," says I, "should you be minded to sail with me, go to
the Peck-o'-Malt at Bedgbury Cross--the word is 'The Faithful
Friend,' and ask for Adam Penfeather."

So I presently stepped forth of the little tavern where I had
found such kindliness and, turning from the narrow lane, struck
off across the fields.

It was a sweet, warm night, the moon not up as yet, thus as I
went I lifted my gaze to the heavens where stars made a glory. 
And beholding these wondrous fires I needs must recall the little
peddler's saying and ponder his "good times"--his "times of stars
and birds, of noon and eventide, of welcomes sweet and eyes of
love."

And now I was of a sudden filled with a great yearning and
passionate desire that I too might know such times.  But, as I
climbed a stile, my hand by chance came upon the knife at my
girdle, and sitting on the stile I drew it forth and fell to
handling its broad blade, and, doing so, knew in my heart that
such times were not for me, nor ever could be.  And sitting
there, knife in hand, desire and yearning were lost and 'whelmed
in fierce and black despair.


CHAPTER IX

HOW I HAD WORD WITH THE LADY JOAN BRANDON FOR THE THIRD TIME

The moon was well up when, striking out from the gloom of the
woods, I reached a wall very high and strong, whereon moss and
lichens grew; skirting this, I presently espied that I sought--a
place where the coping was gone with sundry of the bricks, making
here a gap very apt to escalade; and here, years agone, I had
been wont to climb this wall to the furtherance of some boyish
prank on many a night such as this.  Awhile stood I staring up at
this gap, then, seizing hold of massy brickwork, I drew myself up
and dropped into a walled garden.  Here were beds of herbs well
tended and orderly, and, as I went, I breathed an air sweet with
the smell of thyme and lavender and a thousand other scents, an
air fraught with memories of sunny days and joyous youth,
insomuch that I clenched my hands and hasted from the place. 
Past sombre trees, mighty of girth and branch, I hurried; past
still pools, full of a moony radiance, where lilies floated; past
marble fauns and dryads that peeped ghost-like from leafy
solitudes; past sundial and carven bench, by clipped yew-hedges
and winding walks until, screened in shadow, I paused to look
upon a great and goodly house; and as I stood there viewing it
over from terrace-walk to gabled roof, I heard a distant clock
chime ten.

The great house lay very silent and dark, not a light showed save
in one lower chamber.  So I waited patiently, my gaze on this
light, while, ever and anon, the leaves about me stirred in the
soft night-wind with a sound like one that sighed mournfully.

Thus stayed I some while; howbeit, the light yet aglow and my
patience waning, I stole forward, keeping ever in the shadows,
and, ascending the terrace, came where grew ivy, very thick and
gnarled, overspreading this wing of the house.  Groping amid the
leaves I found that I sought--a stout staple deep-driven between
the bricks with above this another and yet other again, the which
formed a sort of ladder whereby, as a boy, I had been wont to
come and go by night or day as I listed.

Forthwith I began to climb by means of these staples and the ivy,
until at last my fingers grasped the stone sill of a window; and
now, the lattice being open, I contrived (albeit it with much
ado) to clamber into the room.  It was a fair-sized chamber, and
the moonlight, falling athwart the floor, lit upon a great carven
bed brave with tapestried hangings.  Just now the silken curtains
were up-drawn and upon the bed I saw a bundle of garments all
ribands, laces and the like, the which, of themselves, gave me
sudden pause.  From these my gaze wandered to where, against the
panelling, hung a goodly rapier complete with girdle and slings,
its silver hilt, its guards and curling quillons bright in the
moonbeams.  So came I and, reaching it down, drew it from the
scabbard and saw the blade very bright as it had been well cared
for.  And graven on the forte of the blade was the Conisby blazon
and the legend:

ROUSE ME NOT.

Now as I stood watching the moonbeams play up and down the long
blade, I heard the light, quick tread of feet ascending the
stairs without and a voice (very rich and sweetly melodious) that
brake out a-singing, and the words it sang these:

"A poor soul sat sighing by a green willow tree
With hand on his bosom, his head on his knee,
Sighing Willow, willow, willow!
O willow, willow, willow!
And O the green willow my garland shall be!"

Nearer came the singing while I stood, sword in hand, waiting;
the song ended suddenly and the sweet voice called:

"O Marjorie, wake me betimes, I must be abroad with the sun to-
morrow--good-night, sweet wench!"

I crouched in the curtains of the great bed as the latch clicked
and the room filled with the soft glow of a candle; a moment's
silence, then:

"O Marjorie, I'll wear the green taffety in the morning.  Nay
indeed, I'll be my own tirewoman to-night."

The light was borne across the room; then coming softly to the
door I closed it and, setting my back against it, leaned there. 
At the small sound I made she turned and, beholding me, shrank
back, and I saw the candlestick shaking in her hand ere she set
it down upon the carved press beside her.

"Who is it--who is it?" she questioned breathlessly, staring at
my bruised and swollen features.

"A rogue you had dragged lifeless to the pillory!"

"You?" she breathed.  "You!  And they set you in the pillory? 
'Twas by no order of me."

"'Tis no matter, lady, here was just reward for a rogue," says I. 
"But now I seek Sir Richard--"

"Nay indeed--indeed you shall not find him here."

"That will I prove for myself!" says I, and laid hand on latch.

"Sir," says she in the same breathless fashion, "why will you not
believe me?  Seek him an you will, but I tell you Sir Richard
sailed into the Spanish Main two years since and was lost."

"Lost?" says I, feeling a tremor of apprehension shake me as I
met her truthful eyes.  "Lost, say you--how lost?"

"He and his ship were taken by the Spaniards off Hispaniola."

"Taken?" I repeated, like one sore mazed.  "Taken--off--
Hispaniola?"  And here, bethinking me of the cruel mockery of it
all (should this indeed be so) black anger seized me.  "You lie
to me!" I cried.  "Ha, by God, you lie!  An there be aught of
justice in heaven then Richard Brandon must be here."

"Who are you?" she questioned, viewing me with the same wide-eyed
stare.  "Who are you--so fierce, so young, yet with whitened
hair, and that trembles at the truth?  Who are you--speak?"

"You have lied to save him from me!" I cried.  "You lie--ha,
confess!"  And I strode towards her, the long blade a-glitter in
my quivering grasp.

"Would you kill me?" says she, all unflinching and with eyes that
never wavered.  "Would you murder a helpless maid--Martin
Conisby?"  The rapier fell to the rug at my feet and lay there,
my breath caught, and thus we stood awhile, staring into each
other's eyes.

"Martin Conisby is dead!" says I at last.

For answer she pointed to the wall above my head and, looking
thither, I saw the picture of a young cavalier, richly habited,
who smiled down grey-eyed and gentle-lipped, all care-free youth
and gaiety; and beneath this portrait ran the words:

MARTIN CONISBY, LORD WENDOVER.  Aetat. 21.

"Madam," quoth I at last, turning my back on the picture, "Yon
innocent was whipped to death aboard a Spanish galleass years
since, wherefore I, a poor rogue, come seeking his destroyer."

"Sir," says she, clasping her hands and viewing me with troubled
eyes, "O sir--whom mean you?"

"One who, having slain the father, sold the son into slavery, to
the hell of Spanish dungeon and rowing-bench, to stripes and
shame and torment, one the just God hath promised to my
vengeance--I mean Richard Brandon."

"Ah--mercy of God--my father!  Ah no, no--it cannot be!  My
father?  Sure here is some black mistake."

"Being his daughter you should know 'tis very truth!  Being a
Brandon you must know of the feud hath cursed and rent our
families time out of mind, the bitter faction and bloodshed!"

"Aye!" she murmured, "This I do know."

"Well, madam, five years agone, or thereabouts, my father falsely
attainted of treason, died in his prison and I, drugged and
trepanned aboard ship, was sold into the plantations, whence few
return--and Richard Brandon, enriched by our loss and great at
court, dreamed he had made an end o' the Conisbys and that the
feud was ended once and for all."

"My lord," says she, proud head upflung, "I deny all this!  Such
suspicion, so base and unfounded, shameth but yourself.  You have
dared force your way into my house at dead of night, and now--O
now you would traduce my absent father, charging him with
shameful crimes--and this to me, his daughter!  Enough, I'll hear
no more, begone ere I summon my servants and have you driven
forth!" and, seizing the bell-rope that hung against the
panelling, she faced me, her deep bosom heaving tempestuous,
white hands clenched and scorning me with her eyes.

"Ring!" says I, and seated myself in a chair beside her great
bed.

"Have you no shame?"

"None, madam, 'twas all whipped out o' me aboard the 'Esmeralda'
galleass.  Ring, madam!  But I go not till I learn, once and for
all, if Sir Richard be here or no."

Now at this she loosed the bell-rope very suddenly and, covering
her face with her hands, stood thus awhile:

"God pity me!" says she at last in weeping voice.  "I may not
forget how you saved me from--"  Here a tremor seemed to shake
her; then she spake again, yet now scarce above a whisper.  "Your
face hath looked upon me night and morn these two years, and now
--O Martin Conisby, were you but the man I dreamed you!"

"I'm a rogue new-broke from slavery!" says I.

"Aye," she cried suddenly, lifting her head and viewing me with
new and bitter scorn, "and one that speaketh lies of an absent
man!"

"Lies!" quoth I, choking on the word.  "Lies, madam?  Why then,
how cometh my picture here--my coat of arms above the mantel
yonder, the Conisby 'scutcheon on your gates?  What do you at
Conisby Shene?"

Now in her look I saw a sudden doubt, a growing dread, her breath
caught and she shrank back to the panelled wall and leaned there,
and ever the trouble in her eyes grew.  "Well, my lady?" I
questioned, "Have ye no answer?"

"'Twas said...I have heard...the Conisbys were no more."

"Even so, how came Sir Richard by this, our house?"

"Nay--nay, I--I know little of my father's business--he was ever
a silent man and I--have passed my days in London or abroad.  But
you--ah, tell me--why seek you