THE HIGHWAYMAN OF TOURS
The three of us turned with amazement on our faces. Before a word was
spoken the scrivener bounded clear across the room. He came to a stop
before the table and took the dagger in his hand. Then he faced us.
“Now,” said he, “I should like to know who gave you permission to befoul
my house?”
He spoke in a high, commanding key. One of the fellows shifted slowly to
the side of the room. The other looked uneasily about. The scrivener,
who held his head, pointed at each of them in turn with the dagger.
“Do you know, my gentles,” he demanded in a terrible voice, “who I am?”
The two men knotted their brows, puzzled. One of them bit his lips and
the other growled under his breath and flashed a knowing look at his
companion. It was a hint, I knew, that at the first chance they would
make the attack together.
The scrivener seemed to consider them as children. He took his soiled
cap from his head and flung it on the floor.
“Do you know me now?” he cried. “Have you never heard of
‘Will-o’-the-wisp’?”
As though they had been struck by a club, both men drooped and turned
instinctively towards the door. Then they called out loud enough for me
to hear, “The highwayman of Tours!”
The scrivener snapped his fingers in the air. Then like a showman he
took the dagger by the point. He gave it a twist and sent it spinning
towards the floor. It struck and buried itself in the wood, where it
stood quivering like a living thing.
“‘The highwayman of Tours!’” he echoed after them. “The only man who
ever had the courage to stand before the Abbot of Chalonnes and flaunt
him to his face. That dagger there I took from him—with a dozen of his
followers at his back. I was the only man in all the country round to
meet the Dwarf of Angers—alone—unarmed—in the woods—at night. I killed
the Dwarf and threw his body into the waters of the Loire.” He stopped
and laughed a long, weird, tormenting laugh that rang through the room
like the echo of a ghost. “The man who is my enemy is foredoomed to
die!”
A chill crept along my spine. A sullen look spread over the faces of my
two captors. They exchanged glances once again and grinned.
“You can’t fool us with talk like that,” said one. “We’re men.”
The scrivener whistled a quick, sharp note and with the ease of a kitten
sprang upon the table.
“There is a price upon my head!” he called. Then he pointed to the
dagger. “If either of you has the boldness to collect it, let him pluck
that weapon from the floor.”
The fellow who had spoken brightened up. He lurched forward. His huge
body bent over and his arm reached out to take the scrivener at his
word. But his slow brain had reckoned without thought to the
consequences. He had no sooner taken a step when the scrivener raised
himself on the balls of his feet. He shot through the air with the
straightness and speed of an arrow. He landed with all his weight on the
back of his enemy. His one hand encircled his throat. The other, by a
calculation as unerring as it was quick, caught the dagger by the hilt.
There followed a struggle that I shall not soon forget. The scrivener
twisted his lithe body like a snake. He squirmed around and before I
could wink was on top of his foe. He was smiling as though he was highly
pleased with the dagger now raised ready for the descending blow.
He knew that the second fellow would not allow his companion to be
killed. He halted the weapon so that it rested not more than an inch
from his opponent’s throat.
“One move and you’re a dead man!” he cried. Then he looked to the side.
He saw the other coming on with venom in his eyes.
“Take your choice,” he called to him. “Lay a finger on me and you’re
this man’s murderer!”
The fellow stopped. In the twinkling of an eye the scrivener sprang to
his feet. He faced the two with his face lit up and a confidence that
was amazing. The man with the wounded hand slid his hand into his shirt.
He drew forth a long knife with a curved blade. He ran his tongue over
his lips to moisten them and with one bound made for his enemy.
I expected to see him run the scrivener through. But once again his
quickness surprised me. He sprang onto the table again with even greater
suppleness than before. This time he jumped feet foremost. He caught the
fellow in the middle of the chest. The knife went flying from his hand
and he was hurled back against the wall. His head struck with a thump
and his knees buckled under him as he sagged to the floor.
Up to this time the action had been so fast and so unexpected that I was
hardly able to take a breath let alone take a part in it. But when I saw
the knife flying across the room my senses stirred within me. I saw the
second fellow take a hasty glance at the knife. He moved with all his
speed towards it. He was stooping over to snatch it up, when I realized
the danger we would be in if he were able to get it in his grasp.
I took a flying leap like the scrivener, only I went face down, sliding
along the smooth floor. Just as my fingers were curling around the haft,
the fellow was upon me. I must have slid under him for he fell over me
with all his weight. The breath was knocked out of my body. A thousand
stars flicked across my vision. A pain shot over my back. My nose and
forehead were crushed against the boards and a smothering made it hard
for me even to gasp.
But I clung to the knife with all my strength. My assailant dug his
hands into my ribs. He caught my wrist and twisted it till the pain
almost made me cry out. He took a firm hold upon my neck and tried to
squeeze the life out of me. He bent my arm back till it cracked in the
socket. But with all that I clung to my knife as though it was the
dearest thing I possessed.
As a last trial the fellow dug his knees into my sides and held them
there. I felt the breath leaving me. Then with an effort that took all
my strength I jerked myself loose and turned over on my back. The danger
now was even greater for my opponent than it was for me. Although I was
down, yet I had a freer swing for my weapon. If I had thought in time I
could have slashed him on the legs and probably cut him across the arm.
But he saw what was coming. He stood up and backed away and in the same
moment, with what was left of me, I, too, got hastily to my feet.
In the next second it was all over. A form came hurtling through the
air. I felt the breeze of the passing body fan my cheeks. It was the
scrivener who had gotten once more upon the table. He must have been on
the alert for such an opportunity. He caught my fellow, as he had done
the other. His feet struck him a dull blow full on the chest. As though
he were a sack of meal he gave a low groan and crumpled together against
the wall.
I stood for a moment with my mouth open, gasping for breath. I was
anxious, too, about the first fellow whom the scrivener had knocked
senseless against the wall. He was slowly opening his eyes and made a
move as though he would rise. His hands were behind him. He twisted and
pulled to bring them forward. Then it dawned on me that while I was deep
in the struggle, the scrivener had tied them securely behind his back.
I felt a clap on my shoulder. There stood the scrivener with his eyes
shining. His head was darting from side to side like a bird’s. He danced
a few steps on the hard floor and to my surprise leaned over and turned
a handspring as smoothly as you please.
“You’re a grand fighter, lad,” he cried. “A grand fighter.” He held out
his hand and grasped mine. “And to think I don’t even know your name.”
I took the hint.
“It’s Henri,” I said. “Henri La Mar.”
“Well, Henri,” he answered, “we’ll get along fine together, you and I.”
He looked me over and felt of the muscles of my arm. “The makings of a
man,” he muttered. “I’ll make the greatest highwayman of you that ever
lived.”
I was stopped for an answer.
“I’m not so sure that I want to be one,” I replied, but with a smile
that I would not anger him. “It’s a dangerous calling.”
His face fell in astonishment. He looked for all the world as though he
had received a blow.
“It’s the only life for a man to live,” he replied. “Ah, if you were to
tell the truth, I think you enjoyed the little fight tonight as well as
I.”
“I’m glad we won,” I said. Then I fell to thinking. After a while I
drawled out, “Listen, master scrivener, haven’t I seen you some time
before?”
He waved me aside and pointed to the two on the floor.
“We’ll have to fix them for the night so they’ll do no harm,” he said.
“Come, we’ll carry them outside and tie them to the trees.”
We took them one by one and dragged them out of the house. We bound them
hand and foot and lashed them each to a single tree. When we had
finished the scrivener started to whistle a tune.
“You’re good at that, master scrivener,” I began again.
“Good at what?” he demanded.
“—at tying men to trees,” I suggested slyly.
“I’m good at everything I touch,” he replied. “Never yet has any man got
the better of me.”
Then he whistled again louder than before.
“You’re good with the bow and arrow, too, aren’t you?” I insisted.
“I could knock the eye out of you at a hundred paces,” he declared.
“I’ll do it if you say the word.”
I laughed.
“I don’t want to be killed yet,” I said. Then I continued, “You’re quick
on your feet. You’re a shifty wrestler. Are you just as clever tying
messages to the haft of an arrow?”
It was a sly dig, for I had my suspicions and was curious to learn the
truth. His answer was just as evasive as before.
“I told you I could do anything,” he replied like a flash, “whether it
be tying messages or tying men.”
“And that’s that,” I said. “When a bird won’t sing, no one can force
him. No doubt, you’ve heard that saying before, master scrivener?”
“What you hear and what’s the truth,” he came back, “are sometimes at
great variance.”
At this the whistling grew louder and, I thought, more piercing than
ever. The scrivener stuffed his hands into his shirt and strutted up and
down the floor. On each occasion when I turned to him to speak, he threw
back his head and let the notes out of him with such vehemence that I
was almost deafened. At length he ceased from sheer exhaustion.
“You’re a fine masquerader, master scrivener,” I continued prodding him.
“You remind me of a certain fool.”
I meant of course the man with the bauble and the bells whom I happened
on at the armorer’s forge.
“It’s a wise man who can play the fool,” he winked. “Sometimes it’s
handier than a sharp sword.”
It was plain I could get nothing from him. I raised my brows and looked
at him from head to heel. First I grinned. Then I laughed openly.
“You’re a dark, secret man, master scrivener, full of tricks and wiles,”
I said. “But with all your cunning I am sure of this, if you shaved the
hair from your face and washed the dirt away, you would strongly remind
me of a certain gentleman with whom I had a little tiff a week or so ago
at Le Brun’s forge.”