HOW I CAST THE KNIFE.
I soon began to take up the threads of the life in Salem, since it was
like that I would be there for some time to come. Now that I look back
over it I am constrained to say that in no place had I ever found men
and women who made of life so serious a business. Yet, with all, there
was much to admire in them. The witch craze appeared to have passed,
though it left scars behind, and sad remembrances for some.
I made the acquaintance of many who came to the inn, and learned much of
the new land and its people. I resolved, as soon as the weather should
grow milder, to look about and see what sort of soldier material I might
expect among the recruits. I must also learn something of the country
roundabout, as well as of the red men of the forest who inhabited it.
Every day I sallied from the inn, and took long walks. The weather was
growing mild now, and the snow was melting from off the hills and
meadows.
There was some hunting to be had, and I often went out with a fowling
piece, and came back with a brace of partridge or squirrels, that made
dainty dishes, when Mistress Willis had broiled them over a blazing wood
fire, or fried them in sweet butter to a delicate brown crisp.
Sometimes as I walked, or hunted or fished, there would come to me a
memory of Lucille de Guilfort, as I had seen her that day in the court
room. I had caught but few glimpses of her since, and then she had
passed me by with a bow, and a little smile, albeit a sad one. Though to
me she seemed the most lovely maid I had ever seen, I was to her,
apparently, no more than any one else of the Colony. She bowed to
Willis, as she did to me.
At times I would sit idly on a woodland bank, my gun across my knees,
the squirrels playing, unharmed, and not afraid, in the trees above me.
I pictured to myself Lucille. Her eyes were brown; her hair a deep
blue-black, as a fine steel rifle barrel might be shaded. Her face was
like--but what it was like, ’tis beyond me to describe. There was love
in it, and her lips seemed made to kiss. Her voice was low and clear,
like a bell, and made one long, when he had once heard her speak to hear
her again.
But it was little use to dwell on such thoughts, I concluded, for,
though I would have liked to see her every day, there was but one in
seven when I might do so of a certainty. That was on Sunday, when she,
with all the other colonists went up to the little meeting house, on the
hill. There good Dominie Parris held forth, at no uncertain length on
the trials and troubles of this world, and on the necessity of saving
the soul from the Devil and the wrath to come. To my shame be it,
perhaps, but I am afraid I paid but little heed to the minister, for,
from my bench I could catch a glimpse of Lucille, and, sometimes, see
her face when she turned about. Full many a Sunday I sat thus, greatly
cramped in my body, for my legs ill fitted the small benches, though I
felt repaid if she but turned her head once.
The dominie would read page after page of the scriptures, and then
expound them at length, while, beneath the pulpit sat the clerk, turning
the hour glass, when the sands had run from the top to the bottom. And,
most often, it was two full turnings ere the sermon was finished.
Another time it might be three, while, on one weary day (I was
preciously sleepy too) I recall that the clerk turned the glass four
times before the lastly was reached. Yet I sat through it all without a
murmur, for such things a man will do sometimes, when he is not quite
himself, because of a maid.
Once Cotton Mather, a great preacher from Boston, came to Salem, and his
text was witchcraft. He warned his hearers to be on their guard against
witches, who, he said, were abroad in the land. He referred to the
scarlet snow, and to the two executions that had taken place in our
Salem Colony. He also related such facts about witches, as had come to
his knowledge, he said. He spoke so strongly of the powers of the
witches, that the whole congregation almost was in great terror. Some
timid folks double barred their doors that night, lest the witches
should get in. This must have been a precaution of little use, for, if I
had heard aright the witches did not stop at solid stone walls, to say
nothing of oak doors. Oh, how foolish it all was, though it did not seem
so then to many.
So the days went on. I had learned much of the Colony affairs, and made
the acquaintance of the principal men. I had seen enough to know that a
goodly company could be raised in Salem, and I dispatched a messenger to
Sir William with that information.
But as to the throwing of the knife and what followed. I was idly
strolling through the forest one day when I came to a place where two
paths diverged. The left led on down past the common and to the grist
mill, while the other went deeper into the woods. With scarce a thought
I turned to the right, and walked on into the forest.
The last vestige of snow had gone save from the hill tops, and the air
was warm with sunlight. The birds were beginning to fly northward, and,
as I walked, a flock of crows passed over head, cawing to each other.
There was but little of winter left, and that was fast disappearing.
On and on I traveled, paying small heed to my steps until I found myself
in a sort of glen, the sides of which rose steeply on either side, while
the trees, locking their branches above, made it twilight at noonday. I
came to a halt and looked about me.
Glancing along one side of the ravine I observed naught save the dull
brown of the shrubs and trees, some of which showed a little green as a
forerunner of spring. Then my eyes took in the other side of the glen. I
started in sudden fright, for what I saw made me weak-kneed, it was so
horrible.
There stood Lucille, with her back against a tree, her soft gray dress
contrasting with the deep brown of the bark. She was not looking at me,
and I saw that her gaze was directed to a spot on the ground in front of
her. Following her glance I saw with terror that the spot was of mottled
yellow, brown and white. And then I knew it was not a spot, but a great
snake, coiled, and ready to spring.
Its head waved sideways, with a slow, sinuous motion, and the forked
tongue ever darted in and out, like a weaver’s shuttle. Lucille, I saw,
dared not move. One hand was pressed to her heart, while the other
clasped some flowers she had been to the woods to gather; and the
blossoms were slowly falling from her nerveless fingers to the ground.
At first I did not know what to do. Move farther I dared not, lest I
should startle the reptile, and cause it to strike the fatal blow, that,
for some reason, it was delaying.
Had I a musket I might have shot the snake from where I stood, and I
thought with regret of the fowling piece I had left at the inn. I had my
sword, but it was folly to think of stealing upon the reptile, and
trying to kill it with that. Nor was there much chance that any one
would pass that way with a gun in time to be of service; for it was
getting late, and the glen was seldom visited.
Perhaps it was a few seconds that I stood watching Lucille and the
snake, but it seemed an hour. I could see her slender figure beginning
to sway, under the baneful influence of the serpent, and I knew that I
must act quickly. I half drew my sword in desperation, and then I put it
back. For I knew that ere I could cross half the space between Lucille
and myself, the snake would strike.
Now, among the Indians that frequently visited Salem, it was one of
their feats to throw or cast the knife. They would poise a dagger or
scalping blade on the palm of the hand, holding it in place with the
thumb. Then they would raise the hand, palm upward. With a sudden
movement, strong and swift, they would hurl the weapon from them,
casting it unerringly each time. I have seen them bury it to the hilt in
a buttonball tree, and in the body of a man, granting that it touched a
vital spot, the knife would let life quickly out.
I had practiced this trick until, while not as good at it as the
Indians, I had some skill. So, when I put my sword back, I thought of
the knife, and I resolved to chance on throwing it at the snake. It was
but a chance, for I knew that if the reptile was startled it would
strike quickly, and I recognized the species as one whose bite was quick
death. But I gripped the knife, and drew it from the sheath.
Slowly I raised the blade above my head. The spotted brown body was
drawn back, now, and, as Lucille saw that the serpent was about to
spring, a convulsive tremor shook her body. It must be now or never, I
thought, and I breathed a prayer that the knife might be speeded on its
way.
Then straight and swift I threw, the keen weapon leaving my hand like a
shaft of light. On, on it flew, whirling about in the air, but making no
sound. As an arrow from the bow it struck the reptile behind its ugly
head, and, such was the force of the flying knife, that the steel edge
cut through the snake’s neck, and pinned it to the earth, while the
spotted body threshed about like a flail among the dried leaves.
Lucille sank down at the foot of the tree as I bounded forward, certain
now that my cast had been successful. It was the work of but an instant
to lift her out of the way of the flying body of the snake, for I feared
that it might, even yet, strike out blindly, but none the less fatally.
Lucille rested in my arms, her senses having left her for the moment,
and I carried her to a spring near by, where I revived her with the cold
water. She opened her eyes a little.
“You are safe now,” I said. She smiled faintly, then shuddered, and
closed her eyes again. Presently she gazed up at me, and whispered:
“Oh, it was horrible! I shall never forget it!”
I calmed her as well as I could, and she soon recovered her composure.
She declared that she was well enough to walk home, but I protested, and
begged that she would allow me to get a cart from a near-by farmer.
“Oh, no,” she answered, “I could not stay another minute in these woods
now. Let me go with you. I can walk, indeed I can; see,” and she stepped
out bravely enough, but was forced to stop from trembling and weakness.
Then I insisted that she lean on my arm, which, after some hesitation,
she consented to do.
“I was after some arbutus,” she said as we walked along, “and it only
grows in the glen. I had plucked some when, just as I reached for a
beautiful cluster, I saw the snake coiled before me. And then it seemed
as if I could not move. My eyes grew heavy, and there was no life in me.
It began to get dark, and then, and then--all at once I saw a flash of
light, I heard the hiss of the reptile, and it grew all black, and I
fell. The next I knew you were bending over me.”
“I thank God,” I said, “that I chanced by here to-day.”
“Aye, ’twas a most fortunate chance,” she answered.
“Mayhap it was more than chance--my fate,” I said softly, and she did
not reply.
When I had seen her safely to her gateway I bade her good night. She
held out her hand to me.
“I cannot thank you enough just yet,” she said. “’Tis the second time
that you have been by when I have needed a friend.”
“I would it were ever so, madame,” I made answer, bowing. She stood idly
plucking at the arbutus.
“Come some day and see me,” she said, which I might take as an answer to
my words. “That is, when you can find time from your military duties,
which, I fear, must be exacting to you.”
“If they were a thousand times more so, yet would I come,” I responded.
She looked down at the flowers which she still held in her hand. Then,
on the impulse of the moment she gave me a spray. I have it yet, faded
and brown. For forty years it has been ever near me, and I would not
part with it and its memories of the past for all that life holds.
“I shall be glad to see you,” spoke Lucille, after a pause, “though,
perhaps, ’tis a slight welcome I can give in return for the service you
have rendered me. Yet it will be from my heart.”
“None could be better,” I said. “I will come.” I could make no other
answer. I wanted to be by myself and think of it all. For most strangely
had this maid come into my life, and she had awakened strange feelings
within me. Something much like love had found me off guard, for a
surety.