BROTHER BASIL.
Dan Pengelly, the sailor with the Cornish patronymic and Devonian
birthplace, found an excellent boon companion in the little
sallow-faced fellow who had overtaken him a few miles south of
Gloucester. And he found the "New Inn," boastful of having given a
night's lodging to the Queen and the Earl of Leicester, an expensive
but comfortable tavern. Its dimensions were goodly, its position a
sheltered one, its kitchens ample and well-managed, and its October ale
beyond reproach. At first the little man in black doublet and hosen
was inclined to be moody and taciturn; the public whipping, apparently,
had seared his kindly and humane temperament. But jolly Dan poured
oil--not to say ale--on the wounds and eased them. As it was neither
dinner-time nor supper-time, the sailor ordered a repast ample enough
for both, and fell to his trencher with hearty good will. His
companion did his best to emulate him, and for a spare man did
excellently. Dan paid the reckoning.
They spent a merry evening. As far as the sailor was concerned, when
ale went in, wit went out; he poured out confidences, and was artfully
led into babbling secrets he had never intended to disclose. To all
appearances the little man was just as communicative; he talked glibly
enough about places in France, Holland, and Spain, and answered a score
of eager questions about Antwerp, Amsterdam, Paris, Lisbon, Cadiz, and
other places. But when Pengelly reeled off to his mattress of fragrant
hay he knew nothing definite about his comrade--neither name, station,
occupation, nor religious or political opinions. On the other hand,
the sallow man knew Dan's lineage for four generations back, at least;
knew his hopes, fears, recent deeds--good and bad; could have told to a
penny what money he had in his pocket; knew the reason why he sought
Rob of Paignton, and a great deal of the latter worthy's past career.
Perhaps most important of all, he knew where Dan had hidden certain
Spanish papers in Plymouth, and guessed at the secret hidden in them.
He had been merry with the bluff sailor to good purpose, and he lay
awake and quietly smiling at a star that peeped in at the lattice, long
after the bibulous Dan had started snoring like a drenched hog on the
pallet beside him. Before he closed his eyes and settled himself to
sleep, he had resolved to be the sailor's companion for a day longer.
This meant an alteration of his previous plans, but the change would be
worth the making.
The next morning the two travellers were astir with the first robin,
and over breakfast Dan learned that his companion had suddenly
remembered that he ought to pay a visit to Westbury before he quitted
the neighbourhood. The Devonian knew nothing of Westbury, but was
speedily informed that it lay about ten miles along his own route, and
was, in fact, almost at the eastern verge of the forest itself. The
sailor expressed his joy at this news in a practical manner; he
insisted on paying the reckoning for bed and breakfast. The little man
made a show of protest, but submitted amicably enough. The generous
Dan slapped him on the back, and declared that he was growing to love
him.
"I did not like thee over well at first," he said; "there are none of
the roses of innocence in thy face, thy jaws are too lean and hungry
looking, and thine eyes have an odd sort of stare in them. But
'handsome is that handsome does' is my motto, and I find thee a
downright pretty fellow."
The "pretty fellow" laughed good-humouredly. "Thou hast queer ways of
paying compliments, Dan Pengelly, and folk who did not understand thee
might take offence. But it's 'peace and good fellowship' betwixt us
twain; so let us take to the road and hope for a pleasant journey."
The sun shone frostily but cheerily. Down the Westgate Street and out
at the West Gate that abutted on the turbid Severn went the two
strangely assorted comrades. The sailor had a remark or two--not
altogether complimentary--to make about the river. Then they strode
along the causeway that spanned the marshy isle of Olney and led to the
western arm of the river. From thence a broad, tree-bordered highway
ran--at a little distance from the Severn bank--right away to the
hamlet of Westbury. Here they parted company, the sailor going on to
Newnham, where he was to make inquiries after Rob, his companion
striking off across the fields on pretence of visiting a certain farmer.
Dan was right on the track of his friend, although he anticipated a
dangerous and exciting search through the dense, dark forest that rose
on the swelling hills before him. He was agreeably disappointed. A
grizzled old fisherman stood on the river quay idly watching his boat
as it bobbed up and down on the rushing tide. Dan gave him a brotherly
greeting, then halted for a few minutes' rest and conversation. At
first the traveller talked of "tides" as though they were his chief
interest in life. The fisherman had an opportunity of learning that
the tides of the Plym, Fal, and Dart were beyond computation better
than those of the Severn; in fact, he was asked to believe that the
last-named river was no better than a mud heap that got flooded with
brackish water twice a day. The fisherman stoutly combated this
slander, and a pretty quarrel seemed imminent, when Dan went off at a
tangent, and "wondered" whether any one in Newnham had espied a tall,
lean, one-eared man looking at boat or stream at any time. "He's not a
native of these parts," added he, by way of rounding off his
description.
But the fisherman was not prepared for this sudden change of subject,
and he took a minute or two for quiet meditation ere he volunteered the
information that "all Newnham" knew the person in question.
"He was up to Captain Dawe's but yesterday," he said.
"Ought to be dwelling with a tall fellow named Morgan," said Dan.
"Lives with Johnnie Morgan of Blakeney," replied the other. "Everybody
knows Johnnie Morgan. He's kissed the Queen's hand in her house in
London, and 'tis whispered that her Majesty kissed him. At any rate,
Johnnie's sweetheart quarrelled with him directly they got home again,
and the gossips put it down to jealousy."
Dan expressed his sorrow, and promised to advise Johnnie to hope for a
happy ending. "The course of true love never did run smooth, ye know."
"Never!" assented the fisherman.
"Now, how far is it to Blakeney, and must I go through the forest?"
"'Tis an afternoon's tramp, and a lonesome one; ye might run down on
the tide when it ebbs. There's my boat, and I'll take ye for twopence."
"Done! Shall we spill a flagon of ale, and say it is a bargain?"
The fisherman put his tongue to his lips and tested the salty flavour
of the tide, then led the way without comment to the "Bear." The
bargain was so deluged with "best October" that it was almost drowned
in forgetfulness. But, more by luck than judgment, Dan and Rob kissed
one another just after nightfall.
And after supper Dan told the story of his tramp from Bristol. He had
got to the "whipping" incident in Gloucester, and was describing its
effect upon the little, sallow-faced fellow that tramped with him, when
one of Morgan's men burst into the room, his face blanched with terror.
"The man in black! the man in black!" he cried.
Johnnie was on his feet in an instant. "What dost thou mean?" he asked.
"The man in black! the one who did not die!"
Johnnie understood. He took down a sword. "Where is he?"
"He was looking in at the window as I came up the lane."
"Follow me. Stay you there, gentlemen; I'm afeard my man has seen a
ghost."
Blakeney was aroused, but no man had seen anything suspicious, and a
close search revealed nothing. Morgan questioned his man, but he stuck
to his story. An idea flashed across Johnnie's mind, and when he got
home again he questioned Pengelly closely about his companion. The
answers convinced him.
"Thou hast tramped with the devil in disguise," he said.
Dan's ruddy face paled, and he asked for an explanation. His host told
him of the events of the past summer. The sailor's face lengthened
with the story. "And I told him all my plans!" he groaned.
That night Morgan's barns were fired and burned to the ground. The
next night the thatch of Captain Dawe's cottage was discovered to be
smouldering. Two nights later, Dean Tower, which had been confiscated
by the Crown because of Windybank's treason, was reduced to a heap of
ashes.
Brother Basil stole out of Westbury tower the next morning. He had a
bloodstained chip of oak in his hand. It was cut from a beam Windybank
had struck in his fall. "The blood of a martyr!" he muttered.