"The bishop's men!" cried I, "we are pursued. Fly!"
"Too late for that," said my comrade, as a party of huntsmen, some
mounted, some on foot, broke through the glade at the very spot where we
stood.
It was not the bishop's men; but to my horror I recognised in the
leading horseman, his worship the Mayor.
At sight of me in my cap and gown, and of my comrade with his bow and
the dead fox, and of the horse tethered to the tree--(the bishop's horse
had strayed, I know not whither)--the hunters raised a loud cry, and
closed upon us.
"Seize the varlets," cried the mayor, "they are caught at last. By my
life, a scholar, too. If he smart not for this, and something else,
call me a dullard."
I saw by that he did not recognise me, although he cherished a lively
memory of that morning's adventure.
My comrade, somewhat to my surprise, submitted quietly to superior
numbers, and I was fain to do the like. It were better to be punished
for poaching, than to be arraigned before the High Court of Star Chamber
for publishing seditious libels.
"Bring them away, bring them away," cried the mayor, who was in no
amiable mood. "I warrant they shall learn one lesson well, for once in
their lives. Scholars indeed! a parcel of lewd, blood-thirsty, poaching
scoundrels, with no more conscience than a London apprentice. Come,
away with them to the city."
At this a gay young stripling rode up.
"Father," he said, "is our day's sport to be spoiled for a brace of
rogues like these? Surely they will keep an hour or two, while we have
our chase. Let some one guard them in the ranger's house, and we can
take them up with us as we return at evening."
His young companions seconded his request. So the Mayor, who would have
enjoyed more to clap us in the pillory than to win half the antlers in
Shotover woods, consented, and bade three of his men conduct us to the
ranger's lodge hard by, and keep us there till the party returned.
I saw my comrade's eye light up at this, but he said nothing; and
looking very crestfallen and abashed we followed our guard, with hands
tied, and heard the huntsmen's horns tantivy merrily away for their
day's sport.
The ranger's lodge was a hut of but a single room, into which our
keepers thrust us with little ceremony, and made to the door. They were
stout men, all of them, and carried cross bows, besides the daggers at
their girdles. We heard them grumble angrily to be baulked of their
day's sport by a couple of college boys like us, and to be shut up here
all day long with neither drink nor food nor anything with which to make
good cheer.
Whereat one of the party pulled out a box of dice, and for lack of
better sport they began to play.
Meanwhile, I watched my comrade, who, on entering, had thrown himself on
the floor, and composed himself as if to sleep. But though he lay with
his head on his hands, it was plain to see he was not dreaming; for the
muscles of his face were working, and his body once or twice seemed
exercised as with some effort. What this was, I guessed soon enough.
He was gnawing the cord which bound his wrists; whereupon I set-to do
the same, and, in a quarter of an hour I was free. Already my comrade
had signalled to me that he was rid of his bonds, but warned me to give
no sign, but wait the signal from him. So we both lay still, and I, the
better to keep up the part, snored long and loud.
Our keepers, meanwhile, gave us no heed, but played deep and eagerly.
We could hear by the growls and oaths that kept company with the rattle
of the dice, that the luck was not going even. One of the three won the
throw, time after time, and crowed so loud at each success, that the
others (as was only natural), turned first surly, then angry. But the
winner heeded not their wrath, but continued to cackle insultingly,
until their patience being all spent, they knocked over the table, and
fell to blows. Now, surely, thought I, is the time for us. But my
comrade still lay low, and signed to me to do the same. For we were
unarmed, and had we been too soon, all had been spoiled.
The fight that followed was short and sharp. The single man held his
own for a few minutes, but fell at last, borne down by superior numbers
and a stab in the thigh from one of his assailants. Then, when in
dismay, the two dropped their daggers and knelt to see if he were dead
or alive, my comrade gave the signal, and we sprang at one bound to our
feet. In a moment the two men were in our grip, and at our mercy, and
so taken aback were they by our sudden attack, that they cried quarter,
even without a struggle, and let themselves be bound with the cords of
which we just now rid.
As for the third, he was wounded, though not badly, and we left him
unfettered. Then arming ourselves with a cross bow apiece (the spoils
of war), and our own blades, we locked the door on our keepers, and bade
them farewell. One thing troubled me in our escape, which was this,
that my nag (or rather, Master Udal's), and my cloak were both gone a-
hunting with the mayor. However, we could not both have ridden the one,
or worn the other, and we might perchance run less risk without them
than with them. As for the college cap and gown, my comrade nailed them
with our keeper's two daggers on the outside of the door when we left,
in token that here he bade farewell for ever to the life of a scholar.
It was scarcely three o'clock in the afternoon when we made good our
escape. Before sundown, thanks to my comrade's knowledge of the country
(which was all the more wonderful that he had been only two months at
Oxford), we had fetched a wide circuit round the north of the city, and
were safe on the Berkshire side of the river beyond Wightham, on the
road to Abingdon.
For four hours my comrade had paced at my side without a word, and I,
finding nothing to say, had been silent too. When, however, all danger
from our pursuers was past, and night invited us to halt at the first
convenient shelter, he stopped in the road and broke silence.
"Friend," said he, "what is your name?"
"Humphrey Dexter, at your service," said I. "May I ask yours?"
"You may call me Sir Ludar," said he, gravely. "And since we two have
been comrades in peril, give me your hand, and let heaven witness that
we are friends from this day."
I gripped his hand in silence, for I knew not what to say. My heart
went out to this wild, odd comrade of mine, of whom I knew nothing; and
had he bidden me follow him to the world's end, I should yet have
thought twice before I refused him.
That night, as we lay in a wayside barn (for my purse was run too low to
afford us an inn), Sir Ludar told me something of his history: and what
he omitted to tell, I was able to guess. He was the youngest son, he
said, of an Irish rebel chieftain, Sorley Boy McDonnell by name; who,
desiring at one time to cement a truce with the English, had given his
child in charge of a Sir William Carleton, an English soldier to whom he
owed a service, to be brought up by him in his household, and educated
as an English scholar and gentleman. The boy had never seen his father
since; for though his guardian began by treating him well, yet when
McDonnell turned against the English, as he had done, Sir William's
manner changed. He kept hold of the boy, not so much as a ward but as a
hostage, and ruled him with an iron rod. The lad had been handed over
from governor to governor, from school to school, but they could do
nothing with him. Some of his masters he had defied, others he had
scorned, one he had nearly slain. His guardian had flogged him times
without number, and threatened him still oftener. His guardian's lady
had tried to tame him with gentleness and coaxing. He had been
admonished by clergy, and arraigned before magistrates. But all to no
purpose. He snapped his fingers at them all, and went his own way,
consorting with desperate men, breaking laws and heads, flinging his
books to the four winds, making raids on her Majesty's deer, flouting
the clergy, denying the Queen, and daring all the Sir William Charletons
on this earth to make an English gentleman of him. At last his guardian
(who really, I think, meant well by the lad, rebel as he was), sent him
to Oxford, to the care of Master Penry, the Welshman, who, by all signs,
must have had a merry two months of it. At least, I could understand
now why he had been more anxious to get back my cloak than his truant
pupil. Nor could I blame him if he sighed with relief when Ludar,
having fallen foul of every one and everything at Oxford, and learned
nothing save a smattering of Spanish from a Jesuit priest, took up his
cap and gown and shook the dust of the University from his feet.
"And so," said my comrade, who, as I say, left me to guess the half of
what I have written down, "I am rid of them all; and, thank the saints,
I am no gentleman yet."
Whereupon he dropped asleep.