THE THREE CROWS INN
We came to the ‘Three Crows’ about the middle of the afternoon. The
place was set in somewhat from the road and like the scrivener’s house,
almost surrounded by trees. It must have been a hundred years old. The
walls were of wood rough hewn from the forest. In some places the bark
still hung in shreds where it waved in the breeze. The logs themselves
were as brown as walnuts where the rain had beaten upon them. The
windows were quite small—hardly large enough for a man to climb through
and to judge by the cob-webs and dust had not been cleaned for ages.
The scrivener had been swinging along with me the whole day. He was as
lighthearted as a kitten. The thought of the danger we were approaching
never seemed to enter his mind. Even when we crossed the green that was
between the inn and the road he was whistling a tune and smiling away as
hard as you please. Then he suddenly grasped me by the arm.
“They are playing bowls,” he exclaimed. “Look there!”
To be sure, I saw two men at the end of a long alley on the green. They
were at bowls, as the scrivener said. That is, they had pins set up and
were rolling smooth round rocks or stones at them to knock them down. It
was nothing new to me for I am sure that you will find the same sport in
the smallest village in France. I was about to ask what there was
unusual about it all when he clapped me on the back.
“Have you any money?” he demanded with some eagerness.
“A little,” I answered. Then the thought came to me that he made his
living by tricks and even more questionable means. For all I knew he
might have at the back of his head some scheme or other to rob me of
what money I had. So I asked him cautiously, “Why?”
“I’m going to double it,” he replied in an off-hand way.
We made directly for the bowling-place. The scrivener strutted over to
the men with all the airs of a great baron with an army at his back. He
clapped his hands when a good stroke was made. He let out a loud “ah”
when the stone rolled out of its track and missed the pins. He capered
from one end of the alley to the other, following the stone and talking
to it encouragingly as though it had life. He clapped the players on the
back. In short he did all in his power to make a show of himself.
From where I stood it struck me that he was acting like a fool. But at
that time I did not know the man. I realized that he could masquerade in
a dozen different rôles, but I little imagined that he was able to alter
the character of his disposition.
Finally the play came to an end. The winner—a tall gaunt man whose name
was Nicole—straightened himself and puffed out his chest. The scrivener
was on him in an instant. He shook him by the hand. He beamed in his
face.
“A master!” he cried. “You can play almost as well as I can play
myself.”
Nicole’s smile faded. He looked down at the scrivener and frowned.
“For ten years,” he said, “I’ve beaten every man who has set his foot
upon this green.”
The scrivener struck him a hard blow upon the chest. Then he laughed a
high mocking laugh.
“A fine boast!” he cried and snapped his fingers under Nicole’s nose.
“Well, the tenth year will be your last.”
The fire gathered in the man’s eye. The blow was humiliating enough but
the words cut him like a sharp knife. He swallowed hard and flung one
hand out.
“Will you play with me?” he demanded.
“——for money?” asked the scrivener.
“For the clothes on your back, if you will,” was the reply.
At that the scrivener leaped into the air. He placed his hand on the
ground and turned a circle as neatly as he had done on the day I met him
at the forge. Then he stuck his hand in his shirt and looked as
important as a prince.
“Boy!” he called to me as though I were his servant. “Come here and
count me ten crowns from my purse.” He turned to Nicole. “This lad of
mine carries my wealth. If we are beset by thieves, no one would look to
him for the money. Is not that a wise trick?”
He laughed loud again as though he might be proud of his cunning. I
hesitated. I tried to make an estimate of what was going on in his mind.
I was wavering in uncertainty, when he snapped me a wink from the corner
of his eye.
“Not so slow!” he commanded. Then when I counted the money, he threw it
contemptuously on the grass. “Ten crowns, Nicole,” he said. “That will
be one for every year you have been the master of bowls.”
Nicole drew forth a well-worn leather purse such as merchants carry.
With a sly smile he looked sideways at the scrivener and slowly counted
out the money. This he threw piece by piece on the grass. It was as
though he was trying to shake the scrivener’s nerves with his
deliberation.
With a bound the scrivener seized the stone ball. He swung it around his
head two or three times, spinning on his heel. He drew far back and came
forward on the run. He let out a warning shout. He was about to make the
heave when to the amazement of all, his feet slid from under him. The
stone rolled harmlessly to the side of the green. The scrivener fell on
his back and his heels kicked in the air.
It was a ridiculous situation of course. In the beginning I was burning
with anger that he should make such a show of himself. But when I
considered the nature of the man, his unexpected whims and fancies, I
knew that he was playing a rôle that would be wise enough in the end.
When he arose he looked crestfallen. With a serious expression on his
face he brushed the dirt away from his clothes. He even growled under
his breath at his poor luck.
Nicole was standing with his arms folded across his chest as proudly as
though he were already the victor. He took forth his purse once more and
held it dangling in his fingers. With a taunting sneer he winked at me
and then turned to the scrivener.
“Another ten?” he asked with raised brows.
“You must be a rich man,” the scrivener replied. “Are you a merchant
that you have so much to waste?”
“I make my living from such as you,” Nicole answered, “——who think they
can play—and can’t!”
At this cut the scrivener flew into a rage. He threw his arms above his
head and paced up and down. He jerked his fists convulsively.
“It was a slip,” he cried. “Only a slip. I know I can do better than
that.” He spat upon the ground as though he had finally come to a
resolution.
“Henri!” he cried. “Twenty crowns more!” Then in a flash to Nicole,
“Have you the courage?” he demanded.
In a trice the coins were on the ground, both mine and the stranger’s.
Then they went at it again. At the first stroke the scrivener lagged far
behind. At the second his nerves grew more collected. After a little he
was skillful enough to topple over all the pins with the one try. As the
game went on he began a running talk with Nicole. His voice grew high.
He made light of his opponent’s efforts. He counseled him to stand this
way or that. He interrupted him at the moment when he was about to cast
the stone. He clapped him on the back when he made a bad play and
comforted him with the hope that he would do better on the next try. In
short he did all in his power to confuse him.
The ruse worked well. Nicole played with a sort of canny caution. But
when the scrivener had equaled his score, his nerves gave way on him. He
took more time to poise himself before the cast. He fussed about to be
sure of his footing. His brows narrowed and an expression of intense
seriousness crossed his face.
Towards the end it was nip and tuck. Now Nicole was ahead, now the
scrivener. The longer the game lasted, the more boastful my companion
became. He took to strutting about between shots like a
cock-o’-the-walk. He wanted to double the money he had laid on himself.
He shouted aloud that he was the master of the best man in the Kingdom
of France. He said he could prove it with a wager that would be the
ransom for a prince. Then at last just when Nicole was measuring the
green with his eye he let out a whoop, turned one of his somersaults,
put his knuckles in his mouth and whistled so shrilly that it rent the
very air.
The stone that Nicole held in his hand shot forward. But the scrivener
had done his work. It flew in full career down the middle of the green.
Then it seemed to strike a tuft of hidden grass for it bounced a little
in the air and veered over towards the side. It struck the pins however,
but only slightly. Three of the nine were tumbled over and the rest left
standing.
The scrivener raised the stone. He walked to the green with his head
high. He made the cast without so much as an aim, but I saw that he put
all his force behind it. It sped on in a straight line. It crashed in
among the pins with the straightness and speed of an arrow. It hit the
middle one and sent it leaping over to the side. The stone continued on
its course in among the others. They fell one by one in quick succession
until the last spun around and rolled in a semi-circle out over the
green.
At that the scrivener snapped his fingers and gave a cry. He turned to
Nicole.
“You have seven still to make,” he said. “I have only two to win. Will
you——”
Nicole had had enough. With a frown of disappointment he waved his hand
towards the green and then towards the money.
“It is yours,” he said. “I never played so poorly in my life.”
He was soured to the core. But with all that I picked up the coins and
put them in my purse. We went into the inn and sat down at a long oaken
table. Soon we had the meat before us and were eating to our hearts’
content.
It was well on towards dark when we finished. One by one the country
gossips entered and took their places. The landlord lit the oil lanthorn
that hung from the ceiling. Its yellow rays cast flitting shadows about
the room. The air was heavy from the odor of the cooking and the
dampness of the clay floor. The scrivener eyed every stranger in the
place as keenly as though he were cutting him open with a knife. He
began to yawn. He bade me fling a coin on the table to pay the score and
make ready for bed.
We stood up. We were about to turn when the door of the inn flew open
with a bang. I jumped as though the floor had suddenly given way. We
both turned. In the next second my heart sank to my shoes, for in the
wavering light of the lanthorn I saw De Marsac with half a dozen
troopers at his back peering eagerly over his shoulders. He strode to
the middle of the floor and whirled searchingly around. When his eyes
rested on us, he raised his arm and pointed.
“I knew I would find you here!” he cried. His voice was shaking between
joy and anger. “I have caught you like mice in a trap!”
I looked searchingly at the scrivener. He stood with his hands at his
side as unmoved as a piece of marble, with only the flicker of a smile
playing about the edges of his mouth.
“It is my friend, De Marsac!” he cried. “You have indeed cornered us at
last.”
A chill shot down my spine. De Marsac flung out his arm.
“Seize them!” he called. “Bind them till the thongs cut into their
flesh. Let one of you stand guard over them for the night.” He spun on
his heel. His men rushed at us as though we were mad dogs. In the
twinkling of an eye we were thrown to the floor and lashed hand and foot
with thongs of deer hide.
De Marsac halted at the door.
“Tomorrow, at the break of day, they are to be hanged upon the nearest
tree!”
In the next breath he was lost in the dark.