It being yet full early for my purpose I took to the woods, and presently chancing upon a little stream that bubbled pleasantly 'mid shady willows, I sat myself down within this greeny bower and fell to watching the hurrying waters of this brook and hearkening to its drowsy murmur. And lying thus, with the good green world around me, the sunny air blithe with the mellow piping of birds and the soft wind rustling the leaves about me—what must I have in mind but bloodshed and the destruction of my enemy, insomuch that reaching a stone from the brook I drew the knife from my girdle and set about straightening the blade thereof.
I was thus employed when all at once the leaves on the opposite side of the brook were parted and a girl-child appeared. For a long moment we eyed each other across the brook, then all at once her pretty lips curved to a smile.
"Little maid," says I, furtively thrusting the knife into my belt, "art not afraid of me then?"
"Nay!" she answered, smiling yet and shaking her golden head.
"And why?"
"I do like your eyes, big man, kind eyes they be!"
"Are they?" says I, glancing from her smiling innocence into the brook.
"Aye, and your voice—I do like that too—'tis low and soft—like father's."
"And who's your father?"
"He be th' blacksmith."
"How old are you?"
"Seven, an' a big maid I be. Will 'ee aid me 'cross t'brook, now?"
So I lifted her over and there we sat, side by side, she laughing and talking and I hearkening to her childish prattle with marvellous great pleasure. Presently I ventured to touch her soft cheek, to stroke her curls, and finding she took this not amiss, summoned courage to stoop and kiss her.
How long we had sat thus I know not, when I was aroused by a shrill, harsh voice and turning, beheld a bony woman who peered at us through the leaves.
"Susan Ann!" she cried. "O you Susan, come away! Come quick or I'll run for your mother."
"The child is safe enough!" says I, frowning, but clasping the small damsel closer within my arm.
"Safe?" cries the woman, turning on me in fury. "Safe—aye, for sooth, wi' a great, ill rogue the like o' you! Loose her—loose her or I'll scream and rouse the village on ye for a wild gipsy wastrel that ye are!" And here the old harridan railed at me until the child whimpered for fear and even I blenched before the woman's fierce aspect and shrewish tongue. Then, while she loaded me with abuse, a ceaseless torrent (and no lack of breath), I kissed the little maid's tear-wetted cheek and, setting her back across the brook, stood to watch until the child and woman were lost to my sight. Then I sat down, scowling at the hurrying water, chin on fist, for my black humour, banished awhile by the child's innocent faith in me, was returned and therewith an added bitterness. Scowling yet, I plucked forth my knife and seizing my staff, set to trim and shape it to a formidable weapon; and as I worked I cursed this woman deep and oft, yet (even so) knew she had the right on't, for truly I was a rogue, an outcast of unlovely look and unlovely ways, a desperate fellow unfit for the company of decent folk, much less an innocent child; and yet, remembering those fearless child-eyes, the kiss of those pure child-lips I sighed amain betwixt my muttered cursings.
At last, having trimmed my bludgeon to a nicety, I laid it by, and sat brooding, the knife betwixt my knees; now a beam of sun falling athwart the leaves lit upon the broad blade of the knife and made of it a glory. And beholding this and the hand that grasped it, I took pleasure to heed how strong and sinewy were my fingers and how the muscles bulged beneath the brown skin of my forearm; and turning the glittering steel this way and that I fell to joyous thought of my enemy and of my vengeance, now so near.
"To-night!" says I to myself, "Death ever cometh with more terrors in the dark! To-night!" But now, little by little, my joy gave place to anger that the night must be so long a-coming; and, glancing up, I cursed the sun that it must needs shine and the gladsome day that it was not grim night. And presently to anger was added a growing fear lest mine enemy might (by some hap) elude me at the eleventh hour—might, even now, be slipping from my reach. Now at this a sweat brake out on me, and leaping to my feet I was minded to seek him out and end the matter there and then. "Why wait for to-night?" I asked myself. "Surely in the gladsome light of day Death findeth an added bitterness. Why wait for night, then?"
So I stood awhile debating within myself, then, catching up my knotted bludgeon, I set off along the stream incontinent, following a path I had trodden many a time when but a lad; a path that led on through mazy thickets, shady dells and green coppices dappled with sunlight and glad with the trilling melody of birds; but ever as I went, before my eyes was a man who twisted in my grasp and died, over and over again, and in my ears the sounds of his agony. And ever as I went trees reached out arms as if to stay me and bushes stretched forth little, thorny fingers that caught my garments as if to hinder me from my purpose. But I brushed them aside with my scarred arms or beat them down with my heavy staff, o'er-leaping hedge and ditch and fallen tree until I reached the highway, and even as I came there a distant clock chimed the hour of ten. I quickened my pace, twirling my staff as I went, so that the two or three wayfarers I chanced to meet drew from my neighbourhood and eyed me mightily askance. Having gone thus some mile or so, I came to a wall that bordered the road, a high and mossy wall, and following this, to a pair of gates set well back from the highway, with pillars of stone each surmounted by a couchant leopard carved in the stone. Now these gates were of iron, very lofty and strong and fast shut, but besides these was a smaller gate or postern of wood hard by the gatehouse where stood a lusty fellow in fair livery, picking his teeth with a straw and staring at the square toes of his shoes. Hearing me approach he glanced up and, frowning, shook his head and waved me away.
"Here's no road for the likes o' you!" said he while I was yet at some distance. "Off wi' you!" Howbeit, seeing I still advanced he clapped to the gate, and letting fall the bar, cursed me roundly through the grille.
"I would see Sir Richard Brandon!" says I.
"Then ye can't—nowise. So be off and be danged!"
"Open the gate!" says I.
"Be hanged for a murderous-looking rogue, a lousy thief, a wastrel and a hangdog knave!" says he all in a breath.
"All true enough!" says I. "And now, open the gate!"
"Be danged for a prigging gipsy—'A Gad! I'll have ye clapped i' the pillory for a black-visaged clapper-claw!"
"Unbar!" says I, "Or it shall go plaguy ill wi' you when I come in."
At this he spat upon me through the grille and chuckled. Now, glancing about, I espied a stone hard by about the bigness of a man's head and, laying by my staff, I wrenched the stone from where it lay and, raising it aloft, hove it with all my strength; whereon the gate crashed open so suddenly as to catch the fellow a buffet that laid him sprawling on his back, and as he strove to rise I pinned him down with my staff and kicked him heartily.
"And now," says I, "up with you and bring me to your master."
But or ever he could do aught but groan and rub his hurts, I heard the sound of approaching hoof-strokes and, turning, beheld a lady bravely mounted who galloped furiously towards us down the avenue. When almost upon us she swung her powerful beast aside and, checking him with strong wrist, sat looking down at me from the shade of her plumed hat.
"What is this?" she demanded, and her eyes swept over me grey and wide and fearless. "Who—who are you?"
Now at the sound of her voice so rich and wonder-sweet, I felt strangely abashed and, finding no word, turned from her to scowl down at the man I had pinned beneath my broken shoe.
"Who are you?" she questioned again. "Speak!"
"A rogue!" says I, keeping my head averted. "A creeper o' hedges!"
"Ah—is't you?" said she in softer tone. "I saw you for a moment by lightning-flash near the gibbet. You are my man o' the woods, and, sir, I owe you much—very much—indeed, sir, if—"
"I am no 'sir'!" quoth I shortly.
"Gregory," says she, looking down on the fellow 'neath my foot. "Gregory, get up!"
"Gregory," says I, "stir not!"
"Sir, would you hurt my servant?" says she, knitting her slender black brows.
"I' faith!" I nodded. "The uncivil rogue forced me to burst open the gate."
"And why are you here? Who are you? What is your name?" cried she a little breathlessly, and I wondered at the fixed intensity of her gaze.
"Gregory," says I, taking my foot from his middle but threatening him with my staff, "I am come for no traffic with maids, so rise up and bring me to your master."
"Nay," groans the fellow, turning up his eyes, "'tis thing impossible, here's only my lady—"
"And I seek your master—is he within?"
"Nay," says Gregory, flinching beneath my staff, "as my lady shall tell 'ee—he is not here."
"Ha!" quoth I. "That will I see for myself." But as I turned to stride up the avenue, my lady wheeled her horse, barring my way.
"Whither go you?" she demanded, her eyes holding mine.
"To the house for Sir Richard. I have been at some small pains to gain speech with him."
"To what end?"
"Why truly," I answered, leaning upon my staff and viewing her eye to eye, "'tis a matter of vital moment, aye—in a manner of speaking—'tis a matter of life and death betwixt us." Now as I stood thus I could not but be conscious of her glowing, vigorous beauty, her body's noble shape and the easy grace of her as she sat her fretting horse, swaying to his every movement. And to me, in my rags, she seemed no woman but a goddess rather, proud, immaculate and very far removed; and yet these proud lips could (mayhap) grow soft and tender, these clear eyes that met mine so fearlessly—
The staff was wrenched from my loosened grasp and Gregory, leaping to his feet, fetched me therewith staggering blow on blow, shouting with his every stroke:
"Ho—Peter! Roger! Will! Ho—hither, lads all! Loose the dogs—hither to me, 'a God's name!" But, though mused with blows, I rushed in blindly and, closing with the fellow, got him fairly by the throat and shook him to and fro. And now was I minded to choke him outright, but, even then, spied a cavalier who spurred his horse against me. Hereupon I dashed the breathless Gregory aside and turned to meet my new assailant, a spruce young gallant he, from curling lovelock to Spanish boots. I remember cursing savagely as his whip caught me, then, or ever he could reach me again, I sprang in beneath the head of his rearing horse and seizing the rein close by the bridle began to drag and wrench at the bit. I heard shouts and a woman's cry of fear, but I strove only the fiercer, while up and up reared the great roan horse, snorting in terror, his forelegs lashing wildly; above tossing mane the eyes of his rider glared down at me as, laughing exultant, I wrenched savagely at the bridle until, whinnying with pain and terror, the great beast, losing his balance, crashed over backwards into the dust. Leaping clear of those desperate, wild-thrashing hooves, I found myself beset by divers fellows armed with staves, who closed upon me, shouting; and above these, her eyes wide, her full, red lips close-set, my lady looked down on me and I (meeting that look) laughed, even as her fellows rushed at me:
"Go cosset your pretty springald, wench!" But even then, dazed and half-blinded by a hail of blows, I staggered, sank to my knees, struggled up again, smiting with bare fists. A flame seemed to flash before my eyes, a taste of blood was on my tongue, and all sounds grew faint and far away as, stumbling blindly, I threw up my arms, tripped and plunged down and down into an engulfing darkness, and knew no more.
I awoke with a sound in my ears like the never-ceasing surge and hiss of waters, a sound that waxed ever louder. Hearkening to this, I presently sought to move and wondered, vaguely uneasy, to find this impossible: I strove now to lift my right hand, found it fast held, tried my left and found it in like case, and so became conscious of something that gripped me about the throat, and ever my wonder and unease grew. And now, opening my eyes, the first thing they lighted on was a small pool of blood and beyond this a battered turnip, and beyond this, the carcass of a dead cat, and beyond this again, a pair of trim, buckled shoes, cotton stockings, wide breeches and a broad belt where swung a tuck or rapier prodigiously long of blade; in a while (my eyes ranging higher yet) I beheld a thin face scarred from mouth to eyebrow, a brown face with bright, very quick eyes and strange ears, they being cut to points like a dog's ears. Now looking at this face, it seemed to me in hazy fashion that somewhere and at some time I had seen such a face before. All this while, the noise I have likened to the sea had been growing louder, so that I began to recognise voices and even words, and, lifting my head as well as I might (by reason of the thing that gripped my throat), I saw faces all about me—they hemmed me in on every side and stretched away to the churchyard wall.
Then, all at once, the knowledge of my situation rushed upon me; I was in the pillory.
"Huroor! 'E be a-coming' round!" cried a voice.
"Time, too!" shouted a great, strapping fellow near by. "'Tis sinful shame to waste good bad-eggs on rogue as knoweth not when 'e do be hit! He be a mark as babe couldn't miss—a proper big 'un!" So saying, the fellow let fly an egg at me, the which, striking the board within an inch of my face, filled the air with suffocating stench.
This was a signal for me to become a target for all the garbage of the village. And now, indeed, good cause had I to be thankful for my thick mane of hair which (in some sort) saved me from sundry cuts and bruises, howbeit my face was soon clotted with blood and filth.
Vain were it to tell all the frenzy of rage that possessed me as I stood thus helpless against my howling tormentors, chief of whom was the great fellow I have mentioned, who (by reason of height and length of arm) struck me oftenest; once indeed when (beside myself with fury) I raised my head to curse him, he took me a blow in the mouth with some vile missile that set my very gums a-bleeding.
"Lord love ye, shipmate—that's the spirit!" said a voice below me, "But keep the wind o' them—don't let 'em rake ye—douse your figure-head. Lie low, shipmate, lie low and trust to your comrade Adam Penfeather—and that's me. Patience is the word!"
Looking whence the voice came I beheld the man with whom I had talked that morning; now as our glances met, one of his bright eyes closed slowly and, nodding twice, he turned and elbowed his way through the crowd. Small liking had I for this fellow, but with his departure a sense of loneliness gripped me and needs must I lift my head to stare after him, whereupon a rotten egg struck me above the eye, causing a most intolerable smart; at this moment, too, the great fellow swung a cat's carcass by the tail, but, or ever he could hurl this stinking missile, a hand clouted him heavily over the ear from behind, tumbling his hat off, whereupon he turned, bellowing with rage, and smote his nearest neighbour with the foul thing meant for me. In an instant all was uproar around these two as the crowd, forgetting me, surged about them. Thus for some while, during which the fight raged, I was left unmolested and looked hither and thither amid the swaying throng for this fellow, Adam Penfeather, but he was vanished quite.
At length, the big fellow having sufficiently trounced his opponent, the crowd betook itself (and very joyously) to my further baiting and torment. Now as I hung thus in my shame and misery, faint with my hurts and parched with cruel thirst, my gaze lighted upon a small, bony man—a merry-eyed fellow with wide, up-curving mouth, who laughed and jested continually; it was as he stooped for some missile or other that his eye met mine, and in that bright eye methought I read a sudden pity.
"O cull," says I hoarsely, "a mouthful o' water—"
"Pal," says he, winking, "all's bowmon!" Whereupon he turned and vanished in the crowd and I, burning in a fever of thirst, panted for his return, straining my eyes for sight of him; then, as he came not, I groaned and drooped my head, and lo! even then he was before me bearing a tin pannikin full of water. This in hand, he mounted the steps of the pillory and, despite the jeers and hootings of the crowd, was lifting the life-giving water to my eager lips when forth leapt the big fellow and sent water and pannikin flying with a savage blow of his fist.
"None o' that, peddler!" he roared. And now, as I groaned and licked at bleeding lips with swollen tongue, the little man turned (quick as a flash), tripped up the great fellow's heels and, staying for no more, made off through the crowd, that gave him passage, howling its acclaim.
The afternoon dragged wearily on and, what with the suffocating stench of the filth that plastered me, what with heat and dust and agonising thirst, my suffering grew almost beyond endurance; a deadly nausea seized me and I came nigh to swooning. But now, in this my great extremity, of a sudden, from somewhere on the outskirts of the crowd rose a shrill cry of "Fire!" the which cry, being taken up by others, filled the air with panic, the crowd melted as if by magic until the village green and the road were quite deserted. All this I noted but dimly (being more dead than alive) when I became conscious of one that spake in my ear.
"Stand by, shipmate, stand by! There's never a rogue left—all run to the fire—stand by to slip your moorings!"
"Let be," I groaned, "I'm a dead man!"
"Then here's that shall make ye quick," says this fellow Penfeather, dangling a great key before my swimming eyes. "Here's freedom from your devil's trap and a plaguy time I've had to come by it."
"Then for the love o' God—let me out," I groaned.
"Easy all, shipmate!" says he, turning the key upon his finger. "For look'ee now, here's me, (a timid man) run no small risk this last half-hour and all for you. Now a bargain's a bargain, you'll agree?"
"Well?" says I, faintly.
"Why then, shipmate, if I free ye of your bonds, wilt be my comrade sworn? Aye or no?"
"No!" says I. "Plague take ye that bargain with dying man. No!"
"Why then," sighs he, "here's a good rick ablaze, here's John Purdy the beadle wi' his head broke, and here's me in a sweat, alack—and all to no purpose, since needs must you in your bilboes bide."
"Do but get me a draft of water!" I pleaded.
"Nary a drop!" says he, spinning the key on his finger under my nose, "Nor yet a foaming stoup o' good Kentish ale—nut brown—"
"Ha, rogue—rogue!" I panted, 'twixt parched lips. "I'll yet—avenge this torment—an' I live!"
"The legs of a man," says he, "are a vain thing and his strength likewise, and as to vengeance, shipmate, well—how goeth your vengeance as be more to ye than fortune or riches?" Here he paused, but I held my peace and he continued, "Here's you now, you that was so mighty and fierce—aye, a very hell-fire roarer—here's that same you a-hanging here a very helpless, pitiful fool, shipmate, and thirsty 'twould seem—"
Here I groaned again.
"And one not over sweet!" says he, stopping his nose.
Hereupon I cursed him, though faintly, and he comes a step nearer.
"'Tis said my Lady Brandon and her gallant Sir Rupert Dering—him you overthrew, shipmate—do mean to come and take a look at you anon, though 'tis shame you should be made a raree show—burn me!"
Hereupon, I fell into a sudden raging fury, striving so desperately against my bonds that the devilish engine wherein I stood shook and rattled again; but I strove to no purpose, and so presently hung there spent and bruised and breathless whiles Penfeather spun the key on his finger and sighed:
"Shipmate," says he, "wherefore irk yourself wi' bonds? Say but the word and I'll deliver ye, bring ye to safe harbourage and cherish ye with much good ale. Be persuaded, now."
"Why then," groans I, "give me but until to-morrow to do what I will—and I'm yours!"
"Done!" says he, and forthwith set key to padlock; but scarce had he freed the head-board than he falls a-cursing 'neath his breath. "Easy, comrade, easy!" quoth he, softly. "Bide still awhile—hither cometh yon beefy fool back again—so will I make show of miscalling ye till he be gone." The which he did forthwith, giving me "scurvy rogue" and the like. Now, lifting my head, whom should I behold but that same tall fellow had been my chief tormenter, and who now hasted over the green towards us.
"It be now't but Farmer Darrell's rick ablaze," says he to Penfeather, "so let 'un burn, says I, Farmer Darrell be no friend o' mine. So I be come to sport wi' yon big rogue awhile." Herewith he stooped for some missile to cast at me; but now I straightened my back, the head-board gave and, ere the fellow was aware, I was creeping swiftly upon him. Taken thus by surprise small chance had he, for, leaping on him, I bore him over on his back and kneeling on him, buried my fingers in his throat. And so I choked him (right joyfully) till Penfeather gripped my arm.
"Lord love me!" cries he, "Will ye kill the fool?"
"That will I!"
"And hang for him?"
"Nay—he's scarce worth it."
"Then, devil burn ye—loose his windpipe!" So I loosed the fellow's throat, and, despite his feeble kicks, began to drag him over the grass.
"What now, comrade?" says Penfeather. "Sink me, what now?"
"Watch and see!" So I brought the fellow to the pillory wherein I set him, and plucking the key from Penfeather, locked him there in my stead; which done I kicked him once or twice, and having found the cat's carcass made shift to hang the stinking thing about his neck; then tossing the key into the pond, I took to my heels and left the fellow groaning mighty dismal.
Now scarce was I clear of the village than I was again seized of a deadly sickness and vertigo so that I stumbled and was like to fall, but that Penfeather propped me with his shoulder. In this fashion I made shift to drag myself along, nor would he suffer me stay or respite (maugre my weakness) until, following the brook, he had brought me into the green solitude of the woods.
Here then I sank down, sucking up the cool, sweet water 'twixt parched lips, drinking until Penfeather stayed me, lest I should do myself hurt thereby. Thereafter, from strength reviving, I bathed my divers wounds (the which, though painful, were of small account) and fell to cleansing my spattered garments as well as I might.
"So we're to be comrades, after all!" says Penfeather, watching me where he sat hard by.
"Aye—to-morrow!"
"And how goeth vengeance, shipmate?" At this I turned on him with clenched fist. "Nay, easy does it," says he, never budging, "for if 'twas the folly of vengeance brought ye in the peccadille, 'twas your comrade Adam Penfeather got ye out again—so easy all!"
"'Twas you fired the rick, then?"
"None other!"
"'Tis a hanging matter, I've heard!"
"Why a man must needs run some small risk for his comrade d'ye see—"
"Then, Adam Penfeather, I'm your debtor."
"Nay," says he, "there be no debts 'twixt comrades o' the Brotherhood, 'tis give and take, share and share!" And speaking, he drew forth a purse and emptying store of money on the grass betwixt us, divided it equally and pushed a pile of silver and copper towards me.
"And what's this?" I demanded.
"Share and share, comrade!"
"But I'm no comrade o' yours till after to-night."
"Aha!" says he, pinching his long chin. "Is't more vengeance then?"
"Keep your money till it be earned!" I muttered.
"Sink me—and there's pride for ye!" says he. "Pride which is a vain thing and vengeance which is a vainer. Lord love me, shipmate, 'tis plain to see you're o' the quality, 'spite your rags—blue blood, high-breeding, noblesse oblige and all the rest on't."
"Stint your gab!" says I, scowling.
"'Tis writ large all over ye," he went on placidly enough. "As for me, I'm but a plain man wi' no time for vengeance and no whit o' pride about me anywhere. What I says to you is, get to wind'ard o' vengeance—nay, heave it overboard, shipmate, and you'll ride the easier, aye and sweeter, and seek something more useful—gold, for instance, 'tis a handy thing, I've heard say—so ha' done wi' vengeance!"
"No!" says I, frowning. "Not—nay, not for all Bartlemy's treasure!"
"Aha!" quoth he softly. "So you've heard tell of it then, along the Spanish Main?"
"I heard tell of it last night in a cave from a sailor-man."
"How?" says he starting and with keen eyes glancing hither and thither. "A sailor-man—hereabouts?"
"Damme!" says I, "the country seems thick o' sailor-men."
"Ha! D'ye say so? And what like was this one?"
"A comely rogue that sang strange song."
"Ah!" said Penfeather, his eyes narrowing. "A song, says you—and strange—how strange?"
"'Twas all of dead men and murder!"
"D'ye mind any line o't, shipmate?"
"Aye, the words of it went somewhat like this:
"'Some on a knife did part wi' lifeAnd some a bullet took O!But—'"
Now here, as I stopped at a loss, my companion took up the rhyme almost unconsciously and below his breath:
"'But three times three died plaguilyA wriggling on a hook O!'
"Comrade!" says he in the same low voice, "Did ye see ever among these mariners a one-handed man, a tall man wi' a hook in place of his left hand—a very bright, sharp hook?" And now as Penfeather questioned me, he seized my wrist and I was amazed at the iron grip of him.
"No!" I answered.
"Nay," says he, loosing his hold, "how should you—he's dead, along o' so many on 'em! He's done for—him and his hook, devil burn him!"
"'A hook both long and stout and strong,They died by gash o' hook O!'"
"Ah!" I cried. "So that was the kind of hook!"
"Aye!" nodded Penfeather, "That was the kind. A bullet's bad, a knife's worse, but a steel hook, shipmate, very sharp d'ye see, is a death no man should die. Shipmate, I've seen divers men dead by that same hook—torn and ripped d'ye see—like a dog's fangs! I'd seen many die ere then, but that way—'twas an ill sight for queasy stomachs!"
"And he—this man with the hook is dead, you say?"
"And burning in hell-fire!"
"Are you sure?"
"I killed him, shipmate!"
"You!" says I.
"I, shipmate. We fought on a shelf o' rock high above the sea, my knife agin his knife and hook—'twas that same hook gave me this scar athwart my jaw—but as he struck, I struck and saw him go spinning over and over, down and down and splash into the sea. And for three days I watched that bit o' shore, living on shell-fish and watching for him, to make sure I had finished him at last."
"And these other rogues?" says I.
"What like were they, shipmate?" Hereupon I described (as fully as I might) the three sailor-men I had fought with in the hedge-tavern (albeit I made no mention of the maid), while Penfeather listened, nodding now and then and pinching at his long chin. "And this other fellow," says he, when I had done, "this fellow that sang—d'ye know if his name chanced to be Mings—Abnegation Mings, comrade?"
"The very same!" says I.
"Strange!" quoth Penfeather, and thereafter sat staring gloomily down into the rippling waters of the brook for a while. "I wonder?" says he at last. "I wonder?"
"What think ye shall bring these fellows so far from the coast—what should they be after?"
"Me, shipmate!"
"You!" says I for the second time, marvelling at the strange quiet of him. "And what would they have of you?"
"My life, shipmate, and one other thing. What that thing is I will tell you when we have drunk the blood-brotherhood! But now it behoveth me to be a-going, so I'll away. But when you shall seek me, as seek me ye will, shipmate, shalt hear of me at the Peck-o'-Malt tavern, which is a small, quiet place 'twixt here and Bedgebury Cross. Come there at any hour, day or night, and say 'The Faithful Friend,' and you shall find safe harbourage. Remember, comrade, the word is 'The Faithful Friend,' and if so be you can choose your time—night is better." So saying, he arose.
"Wait!" says I, pointing to the coins yet lying on the grass. "Take your money!"
"'Tis none o' mine," says he, shaking his head. "Keep it or throw it away—'tis all one to me!" Then he went away through the wood and, as he went, I thought he walked with a new and added caution.
Evening was at hand as I reached a little alehouse well away from the road and pleasantly secluded by trees: thither came I, fondling Penfeather's money in my pocket, for I was again mightily sharp set. But all at once I stopped, for, passing the open lattice, I heard loud laughter and a merry voice:
"And there, believe me, gossips" (quoth this voice), "as sure as this be beef—aye, and good beef and cooked to a turn, mistress—there's this great, lob-lolly, hectoring Tom Button fast i' the pillory—and by this good ale, a woeful sight, his eyes blacked, his nose a-bleeding, his jerkin torn and a dead cat about his neck, oho—aha! Tom Button—big Tom, fighting Tom so loud o' tongue and ready o' fist—Tom as have cowed so many—there is he fast by the neck and a-groaning, see ye, gossips, loud enough for six, wish I may die else! And the best o' the joke is—the key be gone, as I'm a sinner! So they needs must break the lock to get him out. Big Tom, as have thrashed every man for miles." But here merry voice and laughter ceased and a buxom woman thrust smiling face from the window, and face (like her voice) was kindly when she addressed me:
"What would ye, young master?"
"A little food, mistress," says I, touching my weather-worn hat and pulling it lower over my bruised and swollen features.
"Why come in, master, come in—there be none here but my Roger and Godby the peddler, as knoweth everyone."
So I entered forthwith a small, snug chamber, and seating myself in the darkest corner, acknowledged the salutations of the two men while the good-looking woman, bustling to and fro, soon set before me a fine joint of roast beef with bread and ale, upon which I incontinent fell to.
The two men sat cheek by jowl at the farther end of the table, one a red-faced, lusty fellow, the other, a small, bony man who laughed and ate and ate and laughed and yet contrived to talk all the while, that it was a wonder to behold.
"Was you over to Lamberhurst way, master?" says he to me, all at once.
"Aye!" I nodded, busy with the beef.
"Why then, happen ye saw summat o' the sport they had wi' the big gipsy i' the pillory—him as 'saulted my Lady Brandon and nigh did for her ladyship's coz?"
"Aye," says I again, bending over my platter.
"'Tis ill sport to bait a poor soul as be helpless, I think—nay I know, for I've stood there myself ere now, though I won't say as I didn't clod this fellow once or twice to-day myself—I were a rare clodder in my time, aha! Did you clod this big rogue, master?"
"No!"
"And wherefore not?"
"Because," says I, cutting myself more beef, "I happened to be that same rogue." Here Roger the landlord stared, his buxom wife shrank away, and even the talkative peddler grew silent awhile, viewing me with his shrewd, merry eyes.
"Aha!" says he at last, "'Twas you, was it?"
"It was!"
"And why must ye 'sault a noble lady?"
"I never did!"
"Gregory swears to it."
"Gregory's a liar!"
"Which is true enough—so he be!" nodded the landlord.
"And a cruel-hard man!" added his wife. "But Lord, young master, they do ha' used ye ill—your poor face, all bruised and swole it be!"
"Which it be!" nodded Roger. "Likewise cut! Which be ill for 'ee though—like Godby here—I won't say but what I moughtn't ha' took a heave at ye, had I been there, it being nat'ral-like to heave things at such times, d'ye see?"
"Very natural!" says I.
"And then why," questioned the little peddler, "why break open the wicket-gate?"
"To get in!"
"Aha!" quoth Godby the peddler, winking roguish eye, "On the prigging lay perchance, cull, or peradventure the mill-ken? Speak plain, pal, all's bowmon!"
"I'm no flash cull," says I, "neither buzz, file, mill-ken nor scamperer."
"Mum, pal, mum! I'm no more flash than you be, though I've no love for the harmon-becks as Roger here will tell 'ee. A peddler be I and well liked—wish I may swing else! Aye, well beloved is kind Godby, specially by wenches and childer—aha, many's the yard o' riband and lace, the garters, pins, ballads, gingerbread men, pigs and elephants, very fair gilt, as they've had o' kind Godby, and all for love! And yet, plague and perish it—here's me warned off my pitch, here's me wi' the damned catchpolls on my heels, and all along o' this same Gregory Bragg—rot him!"
"As to all that, I know not," says I, "but this I'll swear to, you are a man, Godby the peddler, and one with a bold and kindly heart inside you."
"How so?" he questioned, his bright eyes all of a twinkle. "How so, my bully boy?"
"That pannikin of water."
"Which you didn't get, my cock's-body lad!"
"Which you were man enough to bring me."
"Which Tom Button did ye out of!"
"Which you knocked him down for!"
"Which is Gospel-true, Roger and Cicely, 'twas a neat throw. Tom bumped heavy—aye, uncommon flat were Tom, let me eat worms else!"
"For all of the which," says I, cutting more beef, "I ask you now to drink a stoup of ale with me."
"Wi' all my heart!" cries the peddler.
"Then," says I, laying my money on the table, "let us all drink in fellowship, for ale, like fellowship, is a goodly thing and good things be rare in this world!"
"And that's true, o' conscience!" smiled the buxom Cicely.
"And ye'll find no better brew than our own!" quoth Roger.
"And that I'll swear to!" laughed the peddler. "Cram me wi' spiders else!"
So the good ale was brought and Godby, lifting his tankard, smiled and nodded over the creamy foam:
"Here's a griping colic to every catchpoll, harmon-beck and the like vermin 'twixt this and London town!" says he, and lifted the ale to his lips; but suddenly he sat it down untasted and rose: "Friends, I'm took!" quoth he. "See yonder!" As he spake the narrow doorway was darkened and two rough fellows entered, and each bore a formidable bludgeon.
"Aye," says one, a big, surly-voiced fellow, "here be us, peddler, and there be you, so best come easy—an' no tricks, mind!"
"Then easy does it, lads!" says Godby, no whit abashed. "No lamb could come milder than Godby, aye lambs, doves and babes is roaring lions compared wi' Godby—so easy does it. What is't this time, codgers?"
"Fower hours i' the pillory, three i' the stocks, and a month in Maidstone jail and that's what!"
"And enough too!" growled Roger the landlord, clenching hairy fist and glancing furtively towards a rusty sword suspended above the hearth.
"Let be, Roger—I'm a lamb!" sighed the peddler. "And I wouldn't ha' you in trouble by me—besides this room o' yourn, though snug, ain't fit for struggling nor striving! So, friends—good-bye!" Then he turned away between his two captors, but as he did so, his bright eyes for one moment met mine and in his look I read appeal.
Now scarce were they gone when I got me to my feet, whereat the landlord, Roger, did the like:
"What's to do?" he questioned, glancing yearningly from me to the rusty sword.
"Why now," says I, counting out my reckoning, "bide you here—for your good wife's sake."
"Aye, do now, Roger!" she pleaded. "'Twould be ruination to us!"
"Moreover," says I, reaching for my cudgel, "they are but two, so bide you here." Then I stepped forth of the tavern and very soon came up with the two fellows, their prisoner walking betwixt them meekly enough. But, as I approached, they halted all three.
"And what be you after?" demanded the surly fellow.
"You!"
"And what d'ye want of us—hey?"
"Your prisoner!"
"Ha! And what for him?"
"I've a mind to him!"
"O! Ye have, eh?"
"I have. Do I get him?"
"Be curst for a black, ugly rogue."
"That's no answer!"
"'Tis all you'll get o' we, save 'ard knocks!" says the man, spitting in his hand and taking firm grip of his bludgeon.
"Why then I must take him!" says I.
"Try and be damned!" roared the fellow. "Ha—look alive, Jem!" And whirling up his staff, he made at me amain; but I sprang aside and, as his rush carried him past, my answering stroke caught him fairly 'twixt wrist and elbow and his cudgel spun harmlessly into the hedge; breathing curses he sought to close with me, but I, keeping my distance, smote him (very blithely) how and where I would until he (his arm useless), misliking my bludgeon-play and reading no mercy in my look, very wisely betook him to his heels. Hereupon I turned to find the little peddler sitting astride his man's neck and his fist against the fellow's nose:
"Smell it, Job!" he was saying. "Smell it, lad, 'tis the fist of a man as would be a-groping for your liver if it weren't for the respect I do bear your old mother—skin me else! So thank your old mother, lad, first as you've got a liver and second for a-saving o' that same liver. And now, get up, Job—begone, Job, arter your pal, and tell folk as kind Godby, though sore tempted, never so much as set finger on your liver, and all along o' your good old mother—away wi' ye!" So the fellow got him to his legs (mighty rueful) and sped away after his comrade.
"Pal," says the little peddler, reaching out and grasping my hand, "here's full quittance for that pannikin o' water as you never got! And now—what's the word?"
"Now," says I, "let us go back and drink the good ale!"
"Pal," quoth the peddler, with a flash of white teeth, "wi' all my heart!"
Thus we presently returned to the little tavern and found there Roger the landlord, the rusty sword in one brawny fist, his wife holding fast to the other. At sight of us he dropped the weapon and roared joyously, and Cicely, running to us, clasped our hands in hearty welcome. So we sat down all four, and while we quaffed the ale Godby described our late encounter with great exactness.
"Pal," says he thereafter, reaching across the table to grip my hand again, "what might your name be?"
"Martin."
"Why then, Martin, have ye any friends or kin?"
"None!"
"No more have I, and look now, this Kent country is no fit place for you or me arter to-day! So what I says is, lets you and me pad it, pal—the road, lad—the good high-road, aha! How say ye, Martin?"
"No!"
"Why no, pal?"
"Because, after to-night, if I chance to be neither dead nor in prison, I'm for shipboard."
"'Tis an ill life, pal!"
"Why, life is an ill thing!" says I.
"Nay, look'ee, Martin, life may be worth whiles now and then—aye, lad, there be times, good times."
"What times?"
"Well, Martin, to lie snug 'neath hedge o' star-time, when your fire's low an' the stars peep down through leaves at a man—wink, they go, and wink, wink, till, watching 'em, a man forgets his troubles awhile and knows something o' content. Aha, many's the time o' star-time they have winked me and my troubles asleep. Then there's wakings o' bird-time, wi' the sun up, dew a-sparkle and life calling within ye and without, and the birds—O the birds, Martin—a-filling the world wi' brave songs o' hope new-born like the day! Ah, many's the morn the birds ha' waked me and I as merry as any grig—Lord love their beaks and wings! There's hay-time o' the evening full o' soft, sweet smells—aye, sweet as lad's first kiss; there's wheat-time at noon wi' the ears a-rustle and the whitt-whitt o' scythe and whetstone; there's night, Martin, and the long, black road dipping and a-winding, but wi' the beam o' light beyond, lad—the good light as tells o' journey done, of companionship and welcomes and belike—eyes o' love, with—"
"Lusty ale!" quoth Roger, setting three new-filled pipkins before us. "And none better nor ourn—eh, wife?"
"That I do swear to, Roger!" laughed the peddler, "Choke me else! But now, as to the sea, Martin pal—'tis a dog's life!"
"You know the sea, then?"
"Like my hand, Martin, and all along o' my father's godliness. A fine, big man he was and devout as he was lusty. Having begot me his next duty was to name me, and O pal, name me he did! A name as no raskell lad might live up to, a name as brought me into such troublous faction ashore that he packed me off to sea. And if you ax me what name 'twas, I'll answer ye bold and true—'God-be-here Jenkins,' at your service, though Godby for short and 'twixt friends."
Now the more I saw of this little peddler the better I liked him, so that the hour was late when, having supped excellently well, I rose to take my leave.
"If you must be away, young master," said the buxom Cicely, "don't 'ee forget there be ever a welcome for 'ee at the Hop-pole—eh, Roger?"
"There is so!" nodded the landlord. "Likewise a pipkin of ale and a bite and all gratus to a pal!"
"And look 'ee, Martin my cove," quoth the peddler, grasping my hand, "there be ever and always the good high-road leading on and away to better things, so happen ye should change your mind, seek me here 'twixt this and dawn, if to-morrow ye shall hear o' Godby at the Fox at Spelmonden. So luck go wi' ye, my bien cull."
"And you," says I, "should you be minded to sail with me, go to the Peck-o'-Malt at Bedgbury Cross—the word is 'The Faithful Friend,' and ask for Adam Penfeather."
So I presently stepped forth of the little tavern where I had found such kindliness and, turning from the narrow lane, struck off across the fields.
It was a sweet, warm night, the moon not up as yet, thus as I went I lifted my gaze to the heavens where stars made a glory. And beholding these wondrous fires I needs must recall the little peddler's saying and ponder his "good times"—his "times of stars and birds, of noon and eventide, of welcomes sweet and eyes of love."
And now I was of a sudden filled with a great yearning and passionate desire that I too might know such times. But, as I climbed a stile, my hand by chance came upon the knife at my girdle, and sitting on the stile I drew it forth and fell to handling its broad blade, and, doing so, knew in my heart that such times were not for me, nor ever could be. And sitting there, knife in hand, desire and yearning were lost and 'whelmed in fierce and black despair.