CERTAINLY the farmer had the look of a bruiser. Moreover he had a
robust confidence in his own powers, and this was expressed by the grin
of satisfaction upon his face. A number of the farm hands soon came up,
attracted by the never-failing charms of a bout of fisticuffs.
Gervase followed the example of his adversary by discarding his doublet
and rolling up his shirt-sleeves. He was far slighter of build and cast
in a mold altogether more delicate than the farmer. Still he was a very
likely looking fellow.
As became a gentleman of his time, his education had been liberal.
Martial and manly exercises had played their part in it. Even in such
a simple affair as a set-to with fists he was not without instruction
from professors of the craft. Therefore he had a modest hope that he
would be able to take care of himself, even if his foe was a man of
greater power and experience.
Gervase gave Anne his doublet to hold. She, alas! was terribly
distressed when she saw what was going to happen. But there was no help
for it. If Gervase did not fight the farmer he must submit to the hands
of the law.
Her natural woman’s instinct was to run away and hide while the battle
was fought. But her staunchness forbade such a course. She mustered all
her resolution in order to remain where she was. Gervase might have
sore need of her help before he was through with a business so grievous.
Although the blows turned her sick, she forced herself to stand by the
wall of the cowhouse and with wildly beating heart watched the progress
of the fight. The might of the farmer’s arms was terrific. Happily he
was a man past fifty; he carried far more of flesh than when he was in
his prime as a fighter; and thus was Gervase given an opportunity to
ward or avoid the worst of his blows. Well it was for him that he was
able to do this, for in his prime, which was twenty-five years ago,
Gideon Partlet had been a famous fighter. Even now much of the old
skill remained; but the muscles were not so supple and he could not get
about as craftily as of yore.
All the same the farmer brought such a zest to his fighting, he
delivered such a rain of blows, and there was such a power behind them,
that had not Gervase been uncommonly quick with his hands and feet it
must have gone hard with him.
The farmer’s great fists would have dealt out terrible punishment had
the milk-stealer been unable to parry them. Even as it was, and in
spite of all that he could summon of youth, activity and skill, Gervase
did not get off scot free. To the huge delight of the farm hands who
were shouting loud encouragement to their master, the milk-stealer
received one blow on the side of the jaw that shook him terribly, while
another caught the young man on the nose and drew his blood. But this
was slight punishment compared with what might have been, for had
Gervase been wholly without experience he had paid heavy toll for his
felony.
Now Gervase was enough of a man to accept and perhaps even to desire
punishment for his offence. He could not help feeling that Master
Gideon Partlet had received a deep wrong at his hands, so that he felt
at first no very great animosity toward the farmer. But if the truth
must be told, the crack on the jaw shook considerably this chivalrous
desire to make payment in kind for his felony; the starting of the
blood rendered it in imminent danger; and when presently he was so hard
pressed that his right eye was like to be closed, the noble sense of
equity of which all men do well to be jealous, was thrown to the wind.
It seemed then to grow clear to the mind of Gervase that Master Gideon
Partlet somehow lacked a sense of proportion. The buffets on jaw and
nose were in his opinion quite as much as the milk was worth. The
assault on the right eye was usury. But the farmer did not share this
view. Once blooded, he fought more furiously than ever. Moreover he
accompanied each blow with a savage grunt and did all he knew to pin
the younger and lighter man against the wall of the byre.
The distress of poor Anne was dreadful. Brave as she was, after a few
moments she could endure the sight no more. Shuddering, she hid her
eyes in the doublet of her champion.
Would the fight never cease? She began to fear that the farmer would
kill Gervase. No longer dare she look at the cruel spectacle, but the
ever-recurring sound of the blows chilled and sickened her. At last
there came a loud cry from the onlookers, and then the dread sounds
ceased. When she ventured to look she made the discovery that a very
strange thing had happened.
The farmer was prone on his back in the mire of his own stackyard. He
lay motionless; and Gervase and one of the hands were bending over him
and were in the act of raising him up.
“Oh, is he dead?” gasped Anne.
“Not he,” said Gervase cheerfully. He besought her to bring a little
water from the pump in the milk-pail.
By the time this had been brought the farmer was sitting up rather
ruefully in the straw of the yard. Gervase supported him with a
shoulder; but soon finding that Gideon Partlet was little the worse for
the blow on the point of the jaw that had leveled him to mother earth,
the young man proceeded to clear the blood from his own face by dipping
it in the bucket.
The farmer watched the process with an air of grim approval. “Here’s my
hand, young man,” he said when Gervase’s countenance had been put in
some sort of order. “You are a lad of mettle and a pretty fighter. By
God, young fellow, I didn’t think ye kept such a clip as that in your
shirt.”
The farmer seemed to think it was the finest jest in the world that
one so wise and crafty as himself should have been careless enough to
lay himself open to such a blow. And, as became one who had enjoyed
many triumphs in his youth, he was too good a fellow not to be able to
laugh at his own expense. “Tell me, young man, where did ye learn that
buffet? A thing like that don’t come by nature.”
“I had it of Christopher Tattersall, the Yorkshire champion,” said
Gervase modestly.
“Did ye so?” said the farmer, with a kind of enthusiasm. “Well, it’s
the prettiest buffet I’ve smelt this thirty year.”
“I would not have used it had you not forced me to,” said Gervase.
“And if I’d known you were keeping it in your sleeve I’d not have held
ye so light, young fellow, and you can lay to that.”
The farmer spoke with a kind of grim admiration, as became an old
warrior who had dealt many a shrewd knock in his time. He bore no
malice, either for the rape of his milk or for the blow to his pride.
Besides, much was to be forgiven a lad of the true mettle.
“If you and your young doxey will step as far as the kitchen,” said he,
“perhaps the good wife can find ye a bite o’ breakfast apiece.”
In spite of the quantity of the new milk they had consumed Gervase and
Anne needed no second invitation.
The good wife, to be sure, viewed them at first with little in the way
of favor. Certainly neither was very reputable to look upon. Fragments
of straw and flakes of dried mud were clinging to their clothes, and
their faces had not met soap and water for many hours. Also the face of
Gervase was sadly swollen and discolored.
Still, in spite of the good wife’s misgivings she gave them a delicious
breakfast of collops, hot cakes and ale. Never in their lives had they
had such a repast. And the farmer, for all that they had stolen his
milk, was fain to heap up their platters with the large generosity of
one who has been a first-rate fighter in his youth.
“I know not who you be, young fellow,” said he. “You have an air of
quality, although you may be none the less a cutthroat for that.
Perhaps you are Tat Barcey, the gentleman prig. Still, I care not who
you are, but by God’s life you are a mighty pretty fighter. Wife, give
the young rogue another slice o’ the cake and give some more swipes to
the young doxey. Let it never be said that Gideon Partlet knows not how
to honor a stout and crafty fighter.”
Thus it was that an hour hence they went forth furnished royally. High
of heart, they took the road again. A night’s rest and a square meal
are wonder-working things. For a time they were no longer the hunted
fugitives of the previous day. Girt by the spirit of youth and braced
by good cheer, they struck across the country into the Derbyshire
woods. Here their path was spread with primroses and all manner of
spring delights. The bursting buds caressed their faces, the odor of
wild flowers was in their nostrils, a thousand golden-throated voices
filled their ears.
In the high-hearted freedom of the moment they forgot their tragic
peril. This was life in its rapture, life in its fulness. Soon Gervase
began to sing.
In the merry month of May,
In a morn by break of day,
Forth I walked by the wood-side
When as May was in his pride.
The green aisles re-echoed his voice. Presently they rested on a
moss-grown bank with the great river flowing far beneath them.
There I spied all alone
Phillida and Coridon.
They looked in the ardent eyes of one another utterly heedless of what
was to come. In this joyous morning of spring they were determined to
forget the horror that held them in thrall. Let the morrow bring what
it might, in this glorious hour they were determined to rejoice. For
the moment let the moment suffice! They would give themselves up to the
rapture of this little hour.
Why have a care? Their pursuers were outrun. They had the whole wide
world in which to hide--the whole wide world, which was full to the
brim with glorious adventure. They asked nothing beyond the comradeship
of each other. Let chance continue to serve them for their modest need.
For their luncheon they took a young turnip out of a field. But this
did not prove a very satisfying bill of fare. Alas! they soon began to
crave an ampler meal. Nor did this craving grow less when early in the
afternoon the sun went behind a cloud and presently a cool wind arose
accompanied by the threat of rain.
Turnips are doubtless excellent things, but they are little enough
upon which to maintain the fires of youth. Thus were they driven, at
whatever risk to their lives, to strike out again toward the haunts of
men. Again was Gervase consumed by a desire to barter the silver-hilted
dagger for a flageolet by means of which he reckoned to get pence, or
failing that, he hoped to turn the superfluous weapon into current coin
of the realm.
They passed through several hamlets, but in none did the opportunity
arise of fulfilling these desires. Moreover charity was lacking, so
that by sundown a bitter hunger took them in its grip. To add to their
woes they were again growing footsore and there had come a change in
the weather. The wind had a sting in it and the heavy gray clouds were
flying low.
Anne, however, was the bravest companion. She trudged along patiently
by the side of Gervase and nothing would make her admit that she was
hungry or weary or afraid. But had it not been for the solace of each
other’s company they must have given in long before they did. Each was
sustained by the other’s valor. Yet with night at hand, supperless and
without a roof for their heads, heaven knew what would befall them now.
At last, when the cold twilight had come down on the woods and fields,
they felt no longer able to go on. They rested awhile by the side of
the road. Gervase nestled Anne’s cheek against his coat, and it seemed
like ice.
“Poor soul,” he whispered, and could hardly restrain his tears.
It was quite dark by the time they had gathered the strength to
continue their journey. At first their limbs were so stiff that they
could hardly walk. But the bitter wind, the heavy darkness and the
threat of rain spurred them cruelly. Their strides grew shorter and
shorter, they fell sick at heart, yet they did not complain of one
another or of Providence.
On and on they trudged until they were like to drop. Exactly what they
hoped to find in that inhospitable night was more than they could have
told. Perhaps some hovel or shepherd’s hut or a byre with cows in it
was the bourne of their desire. But the weary miles passed by and none
of these things came to them.
After a time they turned from the hard and bleak high road, which gave
no protection from the merciless wind, again into the fields. They
felt now that they could not walk another mile. Utterly weary and
dispirited, they still clung to the slender hope of finding shelter
in a wood wherein to pass the remainder of the night. But the country
now was flat and cheerless. It contained little else than low-lying
marsh-land fringed with stunted willow-trees.
Disappointed of even this small crumb of solace, they crept at last
under a hedge which in the total darkness was the best protection they
could find. And grateful were they for it. At least they were saved
from the wind and rain. But fatigue galled them in every bone and they
were most bitterly hungry.
They were too miserable to think of sleep. For the sake of warmth they
lay very close together, but little enough there was of it that crept
into their veins. But never for a moment did their courage fail. They
were sustained with a sense of miraculous deliverance from infinite
perils. In body they were fainting, but in ardor of spirit they were
unconquered still. God who had given them so much would continue to
hold them in His care.
Almost as if in answer to their faith they saw suddenly a light
quite near. It seemed to be no more than a couple of fields away.
Yet again, tortured by hope, they painfully gathered their weariness
and dragged their worn-out bodies toward this fitful and unexpected
beacon. Alas! the two fields became four and yet the light seemed to
be no nearer. But once afoot in its quest, they stumbled on miserably
through the driving rain, in the teeth of the icy wind, over wet
furrows and through close-set hedges. On and on they stumbled, till at
last a moment came when they were like to fall in sheer fatigue. But
Providence was with them still. For in this last dire extremity they
were rewarded by the sight of that which they had come so far to find.