THE FIVE BILLETLESS ARROWS.
The bowman, with characteristic caution, stole down the hill until he
neared the line, wound so tightly round the castle. Here his
circumspection redoubled, and, trailing his bow after him, he crawled on
hands and knees towards his friend, Roger Kent, who, with bowed head,
marched to and fro along his accustomed beat. The poet seemed in a state
of blank despondency, but whether on account of the slanders of an
unsympathetic world, or for the reason that he had parted in discordant
terms from his comrade, John Surrey could not tell. A warble from the
forest caused the sentinel to raise his head and peer into the denseness
of the thicket. The moon showed his face to be alert and expectant,
expressions which changed into a look of joy when the warble was
repeated and he saw emerge from the plantation the rotund figure of his
friend and critic. The latter motioned him to come out of the moonlight
into the shadow, and the unsuspicious Roger, casting a glance round him,
seeing the coast clear, approached until the gloom of the wood fell over
him, then stood, realising that, after all, the insult had not been of
his bestowal, and that etiquette at least demanded from John some verbal
amends for his former verbal buffets, if there was to be peace between
them.
"Roger," said John, "I could not sleep until I had told you how sorry I
am that my roughness of speech gave you good cause for offence, and I
beg you to think no more of my words."
"What you said," replied Roger, dolefully, "was no doubt true enough. I
have been thinking over your estimate of my poems, and I fear I have,
in my enthusiasm, at various times given you the idea that I held them
in high esteem myself; but alas, no one knows better than I what poor
trash they are, and I recited them to you that I might profit by your
criticism. I cannot find fault with an honest opinion."
"It was not an honest opinion," cried John, fervently. "I was
disappointed that you refused to pleasure my master by allowing him to
get free of the castle, but he has said that you were quite right to
stand by your oath and showed me that, in your place, I would have done
the same. Ah, he has a high opinion of poets, my master."
"Has he so? Then am I the more unfortunate that I cannot aid him to
escape. I would I had taken the oath with him instead of under the
Archbishop, whom I have never seen, but such are the fortunes of war,
and one of the many blessings of peace is that then a man is at liberty
to do what he will for a friend, as I think I have well set forth in a
verse conned over in my mind since you left me, which I shall entitle,
'Peace boweth to Friendship.'"
"Let me hear it, Roger, in token of your forgiveness, for what I said to
you a while since was but the reflex of my disappointment, and in no
wise an indication of my true mind."
"The verse is but a trivial one at best," said Roger, in a tone of great
complacency that rather belied his words, "and is, you must remember,
not yet polished as it will be when I indite it on papyrus; still I have
to admit that even in its present unfinished shape it contains the germ
of what may be an epic. It runs thus----"
And here he repeated the lines sonorously, while his comrade listened
with rapt attention beaming on his upturned countenance.
After this felicitous introduction the two sat down together, the
sentinel rising now and then to cast a look about him, resolved that
even the delights of a discussion upon poesy should not make him
neglect the business he had in hand, but the night was still, with the
castle and camp wrapped in equal silence. At last John's quick ear
caught the low signal that told him Rodolph and Conrad were waiting to
make good their way through the line, broken at this point by a literary
conference. John looked sharply at his friend, wondering whether or no
he also had heard the sound, but the other babbled serenely on.
"You remember the poems you delivered that night at the foot of the wall
long ago, when you so unjustly charged me with being asleep, because, I
suppose, your first verses were on 'Sleep?' Recite them again in the
order you then arranged them, if you can, and I will tell you whether
you have improved the lines or not."
The author rapturously began, and he had no complaint to make regarding
his listener's lack of attention. John seemed fascinated, and fixed his
eyes on the speaker with a keen inquiry that was most flattering. Never
had reciter so absorbed an audience, and the poet went on like one
inspired. He glowed with the enthusiasm of his varying themes, and his
voice was at times thrilled with the pathos or the tenderness of his
changing subjects. Once, indeed, he stopped abruptly in the middle of a
quatrain, and whispered, alarmed:
"What was that? A twig snapped; I am sure of it. Did you hear nothing?"
"Nothing, Roger, but the most marvellous lines that ever man was
privileged to listen to. Go on, for God's sake, and do not keep me thus
deprived of the remainder. What follows: what follows, Roger?"
"Ah, John," cried the poet, beaming upon him, "you have the true feeling
for poesy; why was the gift of expression denied you?"
"It is a question I cannot answer, but if I fail to make an arrow, I can
judge it rightly when it is made. Perhaps if I were a poet myself I
could not so well appreciate the verses with which you delight the
world."
"True. I have met other versifiers who were so lacking in all valuation
of genius that instead of listening to some of my best efforts they
would insist on disturbing me with their own poor doggerel, which was
entirely devoid of any just reason for existence. You would hear more of
this poem, then?"
"I would not lose a word of it for all the wine between here and Treves.
Go on, I beg you, for I never before heard the like of it."
The syllables of the poet flowed like the sweet purling of a stream, and
finally, through it all, John's straining ears caught again the signal,
but this time from the opposite side of the moonlit Thaurand valley,
high up on the hill, which intimated to him that his comrades were at
last safe, and that they were making their way across the rocky headland
which jutted out between the Thaurand and the Moselle to the north of
the spot where the talker and the listener sat, and thus Rodolph and
Conrad had avoided the danger of going down the valley and past the end
of the village, which was thronged with the Archbishop's men. John
Surrey still sat there until he thought his comrades had had time to
reach the bank of the river, knowing that then if he were captured or
killed, they, at least, would be free from molestation, for it had been
arranged that they were to wait but a short time for him, and, on the
first symptom of alarm, make the best of their way down the Moselle,
with such speed as was possible. Two more poems were recited, and at the
end of the last, John Surrey rose and placed his hands on Roger's
shoulder, his friend, the poet, rising also.
"If it should so chance, Roger, that I do not live to tell you this
again, mark well my last words. The verse you have rhymed to me will
live long after our two heads are low, if you can but get them on
parchment so that others may read them when we are gone. This is my true
belief, for there is something in them that touches me, although I
cannot explain why or what it is. I do not think I understand them, yet
am I pleased and soothed to listen to them, for the words run smoothly,
the one into the other, like music. This, Roger, is my firm opinion, and
perhaps my last, so remember it, and forget my petulance earlier in the
night. How many arrows have you, Roger?"
"Arrows? The saints save us! What have arrows to do with poetry, John? I
carry five with me each night on guard, but have never yet had use for
any. But respecting that last poem, did you notice----"
"Roger, old friend, good-bye."
Saying this with trembling voice, John Surrey leaped down the hillside
towards the stream, his stout body ill adapted to the recklessness of
his descent, leaving the other standing open-mouthed in amazement,
chagrin coming over him with the surmise that all this listening to his
verse had been a mere cheat; yet John's last words of praise rang
persistently and deliciously convincing in his ears. For a moment he
stood thus, then a realisation of his duty burst upon him, and he seized
bow, automatically placing an arrow accurately on the string.
Headlong the rotund John plunged downwards, expecting a command to stop,
but no cry came. He splashed through the little stream, and knew that in
his slow ascent up the steep crumbling hill, the moon would be shining
full on his broad back, making him a target that would delight the heart
of any archer who ever drew string to ear. He shivered in spite of his
courage, in fear of the sudden pang which he himself had so often and so
light-heartedly dealt, but the shiver was because his back was toward
the danger, and he told himself that he would have faced certain death
with equanimity could he but see the missile that was to slay him. He
toiled panting up the hill, the ground crumbling under his feet and
making progress doubly slow and tiresome, wondering why the shaft did
not come. At last there was a swift hum at his right ear like the sharp
baritone of an enraged wasp. Into the earth, on a level with his nose,
an arrow buried itself up to the feather on its shank. He almost
fancied he felt the sting of it, and his hand went up to his ear without
thought on his part. He turned round for one brief moment, and waved his
hand to the tall man across the valley, then struggled up as before. The
second arrow came as close to his left ear, struck a ledge of rock and
glanced out of sight. Still John laboured on and up. After a similar
interval had passed and the distant bowman saw he did not intend to
stop, the third arrow passed his side, grazing his doublet on a level
with his panting heart. The hill seemed steeper and steeper, and John
breathed as if his breast would burst, the breath coming hot as steam
from his parched throat. He seemed intuitively to know when the next
arrow would come, and it came exactly on the moment, not passing him as
the others had done, but tearing his doublet and hanging there between
the skin and the cloth, yet so far as John could tell in the excitement
of the moment not cutting his flesh. He paused, turned, and lying back
against the hill, gasped:
"Lord, Roger, what a marksman you are!"
Even his lack of breath could not disguise the admiration in his tone.
The tall archer on the further side leaned forward as he saw the other
apparently fall, but he made no outcry. There was still one arrow left,
and he held it notched on the string. The fugitive lay where he had sunk
to the ground, and closed his eyes as he rested, drawing in long
draughts of air while his heart beat like the drumming of a partridge's
wing. It was but a short distance now to the crest of the ridge, and
once over that he was safe, but he was under no delusion that he could
reach shelter if the other cared to use his remaining shaft. The belief
became fixed in his mind that he would be killed at the last moment,
just as he reached the apex, for he knew Roger would not have the heart
to slay him sooner. He rose slowly, waved his hand, and set himself
resolutely to the remainder of the task. The time passed at which the
last arrow should have come, but still the bowman seemed to hesitate. So
exhausted was the climber that he struggled up the last few yards of
the terrible ascent on his hands and knees, grovelling like some wild
beast, the sweat from his forehead drenching his eyes and blinding him.
With a final effort he stood on the ridge, turned round, and in a panic
of rapidly accumulated fear was about to precipitate himself down the
opposite slope when he was saved the trouble of the effort, for the last
arrow rang against his glittering steel cap, the impact flinging him on
the loose rubble, half stunned by the blow. Through his brain rang the
thought, repeated and repeated:
"Roger has preferred his friend to his oath."
After a time he began to fear he was really slain, and to convince
himself that life was still in him, rose slowly, standing at last on the
crest of the ridge, waving his arms. Roger had remained like a statue
after his last shaft had sped, his gaze fixed on the spot where his
friend had fallen. When he saw that Surrey was indeed alive, he sat down
and buried his face in his hands.