Things good and evil balance themselves in a remarkable manner and
almost universally. The steel bow attached to the arbalestrier's back,
and carried above his head, had sunk him. That very steel bow, owing
to that very position, could not escape Gerard's hands, one of which
grasped it, and the other went between the bow and the cord, which was
as good. The next moment, Denys, by means of his crossbow, was hoisted
with so eager a jerk that half his body bobbed up out of water.
“Now, grip me not! grip me not!” cried Gerard, in mortal terror of that
fatal mistake.
“Pas si bete,” gurgled Denys.
Seeing the sort of stuff he had to deal with, Gerard was hopeful and
calm directly. “On thy back,” said he sharply, and seizing the arbalest,
and taking a stroke forward, he aided the desired movement. “Hand on
my shoulder! slap the water with the other hand! No--with a downward
motion; so. Do nothing more than I bid thee.” Gerard had got hold of
Denys's long hair, and twisting it hard, caught the end between his side
teeth, and with the strong muscles of his youthful neck easily kept up
the soldier's head, and struck out lustily across the current. A moment
he had hesitated which side to make for, little knowing the awful
importance of that simple decision; then seeing the west bank a trifle
nearest, he made towards it, instead of swimming to jail like a good
boy, and so furnishing one a novel incident. Owing to the force of the
current they slanted considerably, and when they had covered near a
hundred yards, Denys murmured uneasily, “How much more of it?”
“Courage,” mumbled Gerard. “Whatever a duck knows, a Dutchman knows; art
safe as in bed.”
The next moment, to their surprise, they found themselves in shallow
water, and so waded ashore. Once on terra firma, they looked at one
another from head to foot as if eyes could devour, then by one impulse
flung each an arm round the other's neck, and panted there with hearts
too full to speak. And at this sacred moment life was sweet as heaven to
both; sweetest perhaps to the poor exiled lover, who had just saved his
friend. Oh, joy to whose height what poet has yet soared, or ever tried
to soar? To save a human life; and that life a loved one. Such moments
are worth living for, ay, three score years and ten. And then, calmer,
they took hands, and so walked along the bank hand in hand like a pair
of sweethearts, scarce knowing or caring whither they went.
The boat people were all safe on the late concave, now convex craft,
Herr Turnip-face, the “Inverter of things,” being in the middle. All
this fracas seemed not to have essentially deranged his habits. At least
he was greeting when he shot our friends into the Rhine, and greeting
when they got out again.
“Shall we wait till they right the boat?”
“No, Denys, our fare is paid; we owe them nought. Let us on, and
briskly.”
Denys assented, observing that they could walk all the way to Cologne on
this bank.
“I fare not to Cologne,” was the calm reply.
“Why, whither then?”
“To Burgundy.”
“To Burgundy? Ah, no! that is too good to be sooth.”
“Sooth 'tis, and sense into the bargain. What matters it to me how I go
to Rome?”
“Nay, nay; you but say so to pleasure me. The change is too sudden; and
think me not so ill-hearted as take you at your word. Also did I not see
your eyes sparkle at the wonders of Cologne? the churches, the images,
the relics
“How dull art thou, Denys; that was when we were to enjoy them together.
Churches! I shall see plenty, go Rome-ward how I will. The bones of
saints and martyrs; alas! the world is full of them; but a friend like
thee, where on earth's face shall I find another? No, I will not turn
thee farther from the road that leads to thy dear home, and her that
pines for thee. Neither will I rob myself of thee by leaving thee. Since
I drew thee out of Rhine I love thee better than I did. Thou art my
pearl: I fished thee; and must keep thee. So gainsay me not, or thou
wilt bring back my fever; but cry courage, and lead on; and hey for
Burgundy!”
Denys gave a joyful caper. “Courage! va pour la Bourgogne. Oh! soyes
tranquille! cette fois il est bien decidement mort, ce coquin-la.” And
they turned their backs on the Rhine.
On this decision making itself clear, across the Rhine there was a
commotion in the little party that had been watching the discussion, and
the friends had not taken many steps ere a voice came to them over the
water. “HALT!”
Gerard turned, and saw one of those four holding out a badge of office
and a parchment slip. His heart sank; for he was a good citizen, and
used to obey the voice that now bade him turn again to Dusseldorf--the
Law's.
Denys did not share his scruples. He was a Frenchman, and despised every
other nation, laws, inmates, and customs included. He was a soldier,
and took a military view of the situation. Superior force opposed; river
between; rear open; why, 'twas retreat made easy. He saw at a glance
that the boat still drifted in mid-stream, and there was no ferry nearer
than Dusseldorf. “I shall beat a quick retreat to that hill,” said he,
“and then, being out of sight, quick step.”
They sauntered off.
“Halt! in the bailiff's name,” cried a voice from the shore.
Denys turned round and ostentatiously snapped his fingers at the
bailiff, and proceeded.
“Halt! in the archbishop's name.”
Denys snapped his fingers at his grace, and proceeded.
“Halt! in the emperor's name.”
Denys snapped his fingers at his majesty, and proceeded.
Gerard saw this needless pantomime with regret, and as soon as they had
passed the brow of the hill, said, “There is now but one course, we must
run to Burgundy instead of walking;” and he set off, and ran the best
part of a league without stopping.
Denys was fairly blown, and inquired what on earth had become of
Gerard's fever. “I begin to miss it sadly,” said he drily.
“I dropped it in Rhine, I trow,” was the reply.
Presently they came to a little village, and here Denys purchased a loaf
and a huge bottle of Rhenish wine. “For,” he said, “we must sleep in
some hole or corner. If we lie at an inn, we shall be taken in our
beds.” This was no more than common prudence on the old soldier's part.
The official network for catching law-breakers, especially plebeian
ones, was very close in that age; though the co-operation of the public
was almost null, at all events upon the Continent. The innkeepers were
everywhere under close surveillance as to their travellers, for whose
acts they were even in some degree responsible, more so it would seem
than for their sufferings.
The friends were both glad when the sun set; and delighted, when, after
a long trudge under the stars (for the moon, if I remember right, did
not rise till about three in the morning) they came to a large barn
belonging to a house at some distance. A quantity of barley had been
lately thrashed; for the heap of straw on one side the thrashing-floor
was almost as high as the unthrashed corn on the other.
“Here be two royal beds,” said Denys; “which shall we lie on, the mow,
or the straw?”
“The straw for me,” said Gerard.
They sat on the heap, and ate their brown bread, and drank their wine,
and then Denys covered his friend up in straw, and heaped it high above
him, leaving him only a breathing hole: “Water, they say, is death to
fevered men; I'll make warm water on't, anyhow.”
Gerard bade him make his mind easy. “These few drops from Rhine cannot
chill me. I feel heat enough in my body now to parch a kennel, or boil a
cloud if I was in one.” And with this epigram his consciousness went so
rapidly, he might really be said to “fall asleep.”
Denys, who lay awake awhile, heard that which made him nestle closer.
Horses' hoofs came ringing up from Dusseldorf, and the wooden barn
vibrated as they rattled past howling in a manner too well known and
understood in the 15th century, but as unfamiliar in Europe now as a red
Indian's war-whoop.
Denys shook where he lay.
Gerard slept like a top.
It all swept by, and troop and howls died away.
The stout soldier drew a long breath, whistled in a whisper, closed his
eyes, and slept like a top, too.
In the morning he sat up and put out his hand to wake Gerard. It lighted
on the young man's forehead, and found it quite wet. Denys then in his
quality of nurse forbore to wake him. “It is ill to check sleep or sweat
in a sick man,” said he. “I know that far, though I ne'er minced ape nor
gallows-bird.”
After waiting a good hour he felt desperately hungry; so he turned, and
in self-defence went to sleep again.
Poor fellow, in his hard life he had been often driven to this
manoeuvre. At high noon he was waked by Gerard moving, and found him
sitting up with the straw smoking round him like a dung-hill. Animal
heat versus moisture. Gerard called him “a lazy loon.” He quietly
grinned.
They set out, and the first thing Denys did was to give Gerard his
arbalest, etc., and mount a high tree on the road. “Coast clear to the
next village,” said he, and on they went.
On drawing near the village, Denys halted and suddenly inquired of
Gerard how he felt.
“What! can you not see? I feel as if Rome was no further than yon
hamlet.”
“But thy body, lad; thy skin?”
“Neither hot nor cold; and yesterday 'twas hot one while and cold
another. But what I cannot get rid of is this tiresome leg.”
“Le grand malheur! Many of my comrades have found no such difficulty.”
“Ah! there it goes again; itches consumedly.”
“Unhappy youth,” said Denys solemnly, “the sum of thy troubles is this:
thy fever is gone, and thy wound is--healing. Sith so it is,” added he
indulgently, “I shall tell thee a little piece of news I had otherwise
withheld.”
“What is't?” asked Gerard, sparkling with curiosity.
“THE HUE AND CRY IS OUT AFTER US: AND ON FLEET HORSES.”
“Oh!”