The snow was now deep in the woods about the
library. It lay sleek and drifted upon the paths,
a broad-flaked, mortar-like snow, evidently
produced on the borderland between thawing and
freezing.
"It is fine and buttery," said Hugh John, with a
glance of intention at Sir Toady Lion, which was
equal to any challenge ever sent from Douglas to
Percy--or even that which Mr. Lesley carried for
Hector MacIntyre to Mr. Lovel's Fairport lodgings.
Sir Toady nodded with fierce willingness. He
scented the battle from afar.
"Ten yards then, twenty snowballs made before you
begin, and then go as you please. But no rushing
in, before first volley!"
"And no holding the balls under the drip of the
kitchen roof!" said Hugh John, who had suffered
from certain Toady Lionish practices which
personally he scorned.
"Well, then," said I, "out you go in your jerseys
for one hot half-hour. But no standing about,
mind!"
Sweetheart and Maid Margaret looked exceedingly
wistful.
"Of course," I said, "Sweetheart will want to go on
with her knitting, but if she likes, the Maid can
watch them from the window."
"Oo-oh!" said Maid Margaret, "I _should_ like to go
too!"
"And I should not mind going either," admitted
Sweetheart, "just to see that they did not hurt the
Maid. They are such rough boys!"
So it was arranged, as I had known it would be from
the first. The snow was still falling, but the wind
had gone down. There was to be no standing still,
and afterward they were to change immediately for
dinner. These were the conditions of permitted
civil strife.
"Please, is rolling in the snow permitted?" said
Hugh John, to whom this was a condition of
importance.
"Why, yes," said I, "that is, if you catch the
enemy out of his intrenchments."
"Um-m-m-m!" said Hugh John, grimly rubbing his
hands, "I'll catch him." In a lower tone he added,
"And I'll teach him to put snowballs in the drip!"
As he spoke, he mimicked the motions of one who
shoves snow down inside the collar of his
adversary.
The cover of a deal box, with a soap advertisement
on it, made a very fair intrenching tool, and soon
formidable snow-works could be seen rising rapidly
on the slopes of the clothes' drying ground,
making a semicircle about that corner which
contained the big iron swing, erect on its two tall
posts. Hugh John and Maid Margaret, the attacking
party, were still invisible, probably concocting a
plan. But Sweetheart and Sir Toady, laughing and
jesting as at some supreme stratagem, were busily
employed throwing up the snow till it was nearly
breast-high. The formation of the ground was in
their favour. It fell away rapidly on all sides,
except to the north, where the position was made
impregnable by a huge prickly hedge.
Nominally they were supposed to be enacting _The
Antiquary_, but actually I could not see that the
scene without bore any precise relation to what
they had been hearing within. Perhaps, however, the
day was too cold and stormy for standing upon the
exactitudes of history.
I did not remain all the time a spectator of the
fray. The stated duel of twenty balls was over
before I again reached the window. The combatants
had entered upon the go-as-you-please stage.
Indeed, I could gather so much even at my desk, by
the confusion of yells and slogans emitted by the
contending parties.
Presently the cry of "It's not fair!" brought me to
the window.
Hugh John and Maid Margaret had evidently gained a
certain preliminary success. For they had been able
to reach a position from which (with long poles
used at other times for the protection of the
strawberry beds) they were enabled, under shelter
themselves, to shake the branches of the big tree
which overshadowed the swing and the position of
the enemy. Every twig and branch was, of course,
laden with snow, and masses fell in rapid
succession upon the heads of the defenders. This
was annoying at first, but at a word from Sir
Toady, Sweetheart and he seized their intrenching
tools, calling out: "Thank you--thank you! It's
helping us so much! We've been wanting that badly!
All our snow was gone, and we had to make balls off
the ramparts. But now it's all right. Thank
you--thank you!"
The truth of this grew so evident that the baffled
assailants retired to consult. Nothing better than
a frontal attack, well sustained and driven home to
the hilt, occurred to Hugh John; and, indeed, after
all, that was the best thing that could happen on
such a day. A yell, a charge, a quick batter of
snowballs, and then a rush straight up the
bank--Maid Margaret, lithe as a deer-hound,
leading, her skirts kilted "as like a boy" as on
the spur of the moment she could achieve with a
piece of twine. Right on Sweetheart she rushed,
who,--as in some sort her senior and legal
protector,--of course, could not be very rough with
her, nor yet use the methods customary and licensed
between embattled brothers.
But while the Maid thus held Sweetheart in play,
Hugh John developed his stratagem. Leaning over the
ramparts he seized Sir Toady by the collar, and
then, throwing himself backward down the slope,
confident in the thick blanketing of snow
underneath, he dragged Sir Toady Lion along with
him.
"A prisoner--a prisoner!" he cried, both of them,
captor and captive alike, being involved in a misty
flurry of snow, which boiled up from the snowbank,
in the midst of which they fraternally embraced, in
that intimate tangle of legs and arms which only
boys can achieve without breaking bones.
"Back--come back!" rang out the order of the
victorious Hugh John. "Sit on him--sit on him
hard!"
Thus, and not otherwise, was Sir Toady captured
and Sweetheart left alone in the shattered
intrenchments, which a little before had seemed so
impregnable. Now in these snow wars, and, indeed,
in all the combattings of the redoubtable four, it
was the rule that a captive belonged to the side
which took him, from the very moment of his giving
in. He must utterly renounce his former allegiance,
and fight for his new party as fiercely as formerly
he had done against them. This is the only way of
decently prolonging strife when the combatants are
well matched, but various prejudices stand in the
way of applying it to international conflicts.
In this fashion was Sweetheart left alone in the
fort which she and Sir Toady had constructed with
such complete confidence. She did not, however,
show the least fear, being a young lady of a
singularly composed mind. On the other hand, she
set herself to repair the various breaches in the
walls, and so far as might be to contract them, so
that she would have less space to defend. Then she
sat sedately down on the swing and rocked herself
to and fro to keep warm, till the storm should
break on her devoted head.
It broke! With unanimous yell, an army, formidable
by being exactly three times her own numbers,
rushed across the level space, waving flags and
shouting in all the stern and headlong glory of the
charge. Snowballs were discharged at the bottom of
the glacis, the slope was climbed, and the enemy
arrived almost at the very walls, before Sweetheart
made a motion. There was something uncanny about
it. She did not even dodge the balls. For one thing
they were very badly aimed, and her chief safety
was in sitting still. They were, you see, aiming at
her.
It soon became evident, however, that the works
must be stormed. Still Sweetheart had made no
motion to resist, except that, still seated on the
broad board of the swing, she had gradually pushed
herself back as far as she could go without losing
her foothold on the ground.
"She's afraid!--She is retreating! On--on!"
No, Hugh John, for once your military genius has
been at fault. For at the very moment when the
snowy walls were being scaled, Sweetheart suddenly
lifted her feet from the ground. The swing, pushed
back to the limit of its chains, glided smoothly
forward. One solidly shod boot-sole took Hugh John
full on the chest. Another "plunked" Sir Toady in a
locality which he held yet more tender, especially,
as now, before dinner. Both warriors shot backward
as if discharged from a petard, disappearing from
view down the slope into the big drifts at the
foot. Maid Margaret, who had not been touched at
all, but who had stood (as it were) in the very
middle of affairs, uttered one terrified yell and
bolted.
"Time!" cried the umpire, appearing in the
doorway.
The baffled champions entered first. While
changing, they had got ready at least twenty
complete explanations of their downfall.
Sweetheart, coming in a little late, sat down to
her sewing, and listened placidly with a faint,
sweet, far-away smile which seemed to say that
knitting, though an occupation despised by boys,
does not wholly obscure the intellect. But she did
not say a word.
Her brothers somehow found this attitude
excessively provoking.
* * * * *
Thus exercised in mind and body, and presently also
fortified by the mid-day meal, the company declared
its kind readiness to hear the rest of _The
Antiquary_. It was not _Rob Roy_, of course--but a
snowy day brought with it certain compensations. So
to the crackle of the wood fire and the click and
shift of the knitting needles, I began the final
tale from _The Antiquary_.