THE SWORD IMBRUED
While the pendulum of a clock might have swayed thrice, the four
venturers stood facing Onawa as though her words had turned them into
stone. Then Hough, forgetting all save rage and lust for vengeance,
broke forward to reach the traitress. Instantly she ran for the bush,
and the voice of Penfold called his follower back.
"Lift not your hand against a woman," he cried. "To the forest, my
lads."
"To the forest an you will," Hough shouted. "I at least shall advance
to smite this woman's partner in sin, be he Frenchman or devil."
"Be it so, neighbour," his captain answered. "Together let us stand,
or together fall. Advance, then, and take the place by storm."
As they rushed out, La Salle braced himself to face the odds. He made
a few passes to free his arm, and trod the beaten ground to make sure
that it would not yield. Then, loosening the top bar, he flung it
forth as the spidery form of Hough descended, and it struck before the
Puritan's feet and stopped him dead. The same moment La Salle sprang
upon the lowest bar, but the support weighed down beneath its burden,
and his blade merely stabbed the air.
"A priest, neighbours," Hough shouted. "Now to avenge our martyrs
burnt at Smithfield by Bloody Mary and the Pope."
Onawa, standing forgotten at the edge of the bush, cast around her a
searching glance. The encampment of her tribe was far distant. The
hound had gone out howling. Danger from that quarter was yet to come.
She stood in shadow, the moonlight whitening the sand in front and
darkening the shapes which hurried to regain their own. No eyes were
upon her. She raised her left hand to her right shoulder and with the
same ominous motion dropped upon one knee, falling unconsciously into
the pose of a goddess of the chase.
The attackers hesitated, knowing the reputation of the man with whom
they had to deal. To attempt to scale the palisade at that point meant
certain loss, and they were not strong enough to take the risk. Hunted
and hunters glared at each other over the pine bars. "Get you round,
Jesse," whispered Penfold. "The dog is bold because he knows his back
is safe."
Woodfield ran beneath the palisading to a place known to him, where he
might scale the fence and so take the priest from behind.
La Salle detected the ruse and taunted his baiters in native French,
while his keen eyes sought an opportunity to strike. He bent
cautiously and gathered a handful of sand. Hough sprang upon the bars,
and for the first time swords were clashed; for the first time also the
Puritan realised the power of the priest's wrist. The point escaped
his forearm by a mere margin, and La Salle laughed contemptuously.
"Brave Lutherans!" he cried. "Four soldiers against a priest.
Advance, soldiers. The point a trifle higher. The elbow close to the
side. Now you stand too near together."
"Wait until friend Woodfield comes up," muttered Flower. "Then he
shall laugh his last."
As he spoke there came a sound through the moonbeams, as it were the
vibrating of the wings of a humming-bird, and to the music of this
disturbance Flower flung up his arms with a choking cough and closed
his sentence with a gasp of pain. His sword darted to the ground. He
swayed to and fro, his eyes wild, his mouth open in a useless endeavour
to appeal to his comrades, and then plunged down, like a man diving
into the water to swim, and sprawled at their feet, with a rough shaft
topped by a crow's feather springing from his back.
A cloud of sand stung the faces of the survivors, and before they could
recover their eyesight, or awaken to the knowledge of Woodfield's
approaching shout, La Salle was across the bars and bearing down upon
them, his cold face branded with its mocking smile. He dashed their
opposition aside, and turned, flushed with success, to renew the
struggle, the taunts still ringing from his tongue.
But help was near at hand. Before the maddened and half stupefied
Englishmen were able to move the night again resounded. Blood had
scented the foe and could no longer be restrained. The priest wheeled
round when he heard those howls, and escaped into the shadows with
Penfold and Woodfield at his heels.
There was indeed one man, and he the most vengeful of his enemies, who
might have outstripped the priest, but it so happened that the
long-striding Puritan had lost his reason. Obeying the first impulse,
he pursued the traitress, mad to avenge the good yeoman who was
stretched to his long sleep at the entrance to New Windsor. Nor did he
realise his mistake until the shadow, after mocking him for a long
mile, flitted into the unknown depths of the bush, and so disappeared.
"Fear not, masters," called young Richard, as boy and dog passed,
running as freshly as at the start. "Do but show my father which way I
have gone. Blood shall hunt the Frenchman down, and I shall slay him.
I shall slay him, friends."
They swept on, flinging the dew across the bars of moonshine. That
triumphant voice came back to the two men as they slackened speed for
lack of breath: "I shall slay the Frenchman. I shall slay him,
friends."
Penfold sank upon a bed of moss and panted into his hands. Woodfield
stood near, his breath coming in white steam, his breast rising and
falling.
"It is God's way, neighbour," he said gently.
The old leader's voice came in a sobbing whisper:
"Through the device of the devil, smitten down foully.... A man of few
words, a good soul, with a smile for all. I knew him as a boy at home,
a gentle boy, who would never join in stoning birds in the hedgerow or
in killing butterflies, because, quoth he, God made them to give us
song and happiness. And yet none quicker than he at ball or quintain,
none braver at quarterstaff. Twice won he the silver arrow in Holborn
Fields, and at home would lead his mother to church a' Sundays, and a'
week-day drive the horses out to field. A sober lad as ever sang with
the lark beside our Thames.... An arrow in the back, an arrow shot by
an Indian witch. It passes all. Call you that God's way? God wills a
man to die in fair fight, with his death in front. And this! Oh,
George! To fall like a beast hunted for the pot."
"Yet 'twas a soldier's end."
"Tell them not at home," cried Penfold. "Let them not know, if ever we
see Thames-side again, how George Flower fell. Ay, like a flower he
came up, and as a grass has he been mown down. Many are the wiles of
Satan. The arrow that flieth by night, the coward arrow of treachery.
'Tis a foul wind that blows out a good man's life. He was a good man.
His old mother, if yet she live, may look upon his past and smile.
Such as George has made our England live. The strong oaks of the land.
From treachery and sudden death, good Lord deliver us!"
"Amen, captain!"
"Where is friend Hough?" asked the old man sharply, rising and groping
like one awakened from sleep.
"I saw him rushing into the forest as a man possessed."
"His zeal consumes him. I fear me while the madness last he will
thrust his sword through that witch and so bring us to trouble with the
Indians."
"She will escape from him in the forest."
"Bear with me," said Penfold brokenly. "To-night I am old. My leg
pains me so that I may hardly rest upon it. What is here? See! Whom
have we yonder?"
The man of Kent came striding through, with the hot question: "Hast
seen my son?"
As shortly Woodfield answered, and the knight hurried on without a word
along the dim trail where the pursued and the pursuers had passed.
"I am but a useless hulk this night," groaned Penfold. "Do you follow
and bring me word, while I stay to keep company with our George."
So Woodfield went. It was but a parting for the hour. He withdrew
himself from his tough old captain and fellow villager, without a grasp
of the hand, with no word of farewell, nor even a kindly look at the
rugged features that he loved, never dreaming that he and Simon Penfold
would speak again no more.
The knight, more skilled in woodcraft, proceeded faster than the
yeoman. The clash of steel reached his ears against the wind, the wild
bayings of a dog, and deep French accents mingled with shrill
counter-blasts in an English tongue. The shuddering forest became
hideous, and the moonbeams came to his eyes red between the branches.
Man La Salle feared not at all, but the fangs and glowing eyes of the
hound appalled. Any moment the brute might spring upon his back. He
could not hope to escape from hunters who covered the ground with the
speed of deer and might not be thrown off the scent. He stopped,
breathing furiously, and set his back against a smooth trunk; but when
his foes swept up, and he beheld the size and innocence of the
sword-bearer, he laughed, even as Goliath laughed when young David came
out against him armed with a sling and a few smooth pebbles from the
brook.
"By the five wounds of God, 'tis but a child!" he muttered, as his
breath returned. "May it never be said that La Salle ran in fear from
a baby and a dog."
He smiled with compassion for the white face which became visible when
a bar of light crossed it. "I will deal lightly with the child," he
said, "but the dog must die, or he shall hunt me through the night."
"Down, Blood!" called the young voice; and the brute crouched like a
tiger, sweeping the grass madly with his tail.
"He bears himself like a veteran," muttered La Salle, with a brave
man's admiration for courage. "The pity that he is so young!"
"On guard, sir!" shouted Richard, stepping up with the challenge which
his father had taught him.
"Back, little one," said the priest in his own tongue. "Put up your
sword until you become a man, and return to your fishing-lines, and be
young while you may."
The boy could not understand one word of the hated language. Saving
his breath, he replied by springing forward, to cross swords with his
renowned antagonist as confidently as on the former memorable night he
had faced his father. A few passes, a turn or so, a quick lunge over
the guard, a rapid bout of skirmishing high upon the breast, and the
astonished Frenchman became assured that his youthful opponent was a
swordsman almost worthy of his steel.
"By St. Denis!" he muttered, playing his sword from side to side with
his inimitable sureness. "What wonder is this! Are these Englishmen
soldiers from their cradle? A doughty stripling! He fences like a
maitre d'armes."
But time was passing, others were upon his track, and, though La Salle
was willing to spare, he knew that he was compelled to strike.
He stepped forward, closed with his antagonist, and by a deft turn of
his iron wrist caught the boy's sword at the hilt and wrested it from
his hand. Then he raised his point and lightly pricked the near
shoulder.
"Go in peace, my son," he said in English.
That contemptuous manner, naturally assumed before inferior and
superior alike, stung young Richard to the soul. He ran for his sword,
while Blood sprang up with a deep challenge, and plunged after La
Salle, who again had taken to flight. Richard followed at full speed,
his blood boiling to avenge the insult to his knighthood.
"They come," said La Salle resignedly. "He must have the coup de
grace. Now God have mercy upon his infant soul."
He came in his flight to a natural opening, one half in deep shadow,
the other lit by the sparkling moon and carpeted by short grass.
Columnar trees stood at regular intervals around this garden in the
forest. A few night lilies opened their sulphur cups. The place might
have been a dancing-ring for elves, and the priest crossed himself when
he stopped, looked round, and swiftly wiped his sword.
"The turf like a rich cloth," he murmured. "The trees falling back,
the moon soft yet sufficient. An ideal spot for sword-play. But
methinks somewhat weird."
The peace of the glade was broken in a moment. Blood dashed out, his
fangs bared, and made two fierce bounds over the turf. La Salle fixed
his eye upon a white spot in the underpart of the flying body, and at
precisely the critical moment stepped aside, catching the hound upon
his point and running him through from the centre of the white patch to
the stiff hackles of his back. He turned sharply, lest his sword
should break, and the dying body passed swiftly from his blade and
crashed into the bush.
"When killing is too easy it carries the mask of murder," the priest
muttered.
He turned again, for Richard was upon him with a sob of rage, and
shouting: "Devil! You shall die for killing my dog, devil that you
are!"
Aware that his time was short, La Salle parried the boy's wild lunges
and replied by his own calculated attack. In that supreme moment of
his life Richard fought, even as his father might have done, with
strength, accuracy, and cunning manoeuvre. The swords played together
for little longer than a minute, and then came the _passe en tierce_
outside the guard, which put an end to the unequal fight and left a
body bleeding upon the grass.
A cry came from the forest, a near reassuring cry:
"Hold him out, Richard. On the defensive. Do not attack. Remember
the pass I taught you."
The priest's eyes dimmed. Hastily he arranged the warm body, closed
the eyes, straightened the legs and folded the stubborn arms, muttering
a prayer the while.
"Heretic though you are, our Lady of Mercy may yet plead for you," he
said; but his words were inaudible to his own ears, because of the
shout which rang behind his shoulders:
"Hold him off, Richard. I am with you. Keep your eyes upon his point.
I am here."
As the bush gave before the avenger of blood, La Salle ran swiftly from
that spot. And all the forest seemed to be moaning for the child thus
cut down before he was grown, and the winds off Couchicing sobbed above
the hemlocks, and the moon sank down as cold as snow, drawing the
purple shadow closer to that white face and the straight, stiff limbs.