  That night I slept but little. The excitement of the day had been too much for me. The old Count’s death, the treachery of De Marsac, and the appearance in our parts of so great and widely known a man as the Black Prince—all this set my brain in a swirl and kindled in it a kind of fire. Besides, too, there was the prospect of the long journey that lay before me, visions of the strange characters I would meet, the odds and ends of places through which I should surely pass, and by no means least of all, the snares and pitfalls that were certain to be a menace to my unwary feet. At the first grey of dawn I was up from my bed. As quickly as I was able I dressed myself in the same clothes that I had worn on the day of the boar-hunt—a jerkin of strong sewed leather, a doublet that would keep out both wind and rain, breeches of soft deer-hide, knitted stockings of our home-spun wool, a pair of shoes that were oiled and worked until they were as pliant as the skin upon my hand—plain clothes, but strong and lasting, clothes that would draw no comment either for their richness or their meanness. And as a last touch I set a little cap with a feather in it upon my head. I breakfasted on a cold meat-pie that was left over from the night before. All was quiet about the house. I thought that as yet there was no one stirring. But when I walked into the open to my surprise there was AndrÉ coming from the stables, leading a horse on either hand—his own and the one I was accustomed to call mine. “I will ride with you as far as the brow of the hill,” he said, and that in a voice that was almost at a breaking point. I would have answered but a lump as big as an apple rose to my throat, so that without a word I took the reins that he offered me and swung into the saddle. We started down the road at a slow canter. The freshness of the morning air sent the blood tingling through my veins. The brightness of the sun shone on every dewy leaf. The easy motion of the horse had a charm of its own. But with all this I could not scatter the cloud of seriousness that had come between us. Presently we fell into an easy talk, but it was a talk that hid rather than revealed what lay deepest in our bosoms. Not a word was spoken of the happenings of the past week nor of the mission I was on until after more than an hour’s ride. We came to the crest of the hill that rises southward from our home. Here we slowly gathered in the reins. We halted our horses and sat side by side for a moment in silence. Then AndrÉ drew a long breath and extended his hand. “Good-by, Henri,” he said, and added in a faltering voice, “You will come safe home to me, I know.” That was all. I took his hand in mine. Our eyes met. But I had to turn mine quickly aside again. “I shall do my best,” I replied. It wasn’t much of an answer, but it was as brave a speech as I was able to bring over my lips. The truth is my tongue failed me. When I looked up again a little wistful smile lay in the corners of my brother’s mouth and he was drawing in the reins to turn about. We parted. I urged the roan forward and started off down the other side of the hill. Now and then the impulse rose within me to turn and wave a last farewell, but ever as it did, new strength came to me and I set my face resolutely forward. The horse broke into a loose trot. Faster and faster I went over the uneven road. More than once I thought I would be pitched headlong from my mount. I entered a sharp bend in the hills. As I turned the horse’s head the tall trees stood between me and my home like a great black wall. Within an hour or two I realized that I was treading on new ground. Yet the further I went, the freer I felt. I was like a bird loosed from long confinement in a cage. The joy of exploration was lending me fresh thoughts and my dependence on those at home was shaken gradually from me like the last threads of an old garment. The highway was like a country in itself. It had its inhabitants and its customs, its laws and traditions. Its population, too, began to strike me as singularly fanciful. Traveler after traveler passed me, the one on the heels of the other. But all of them of interest. Indeed so different were they from one another that I was soon set speculating and wondering what manner of life they led and above all where in the world could they be going. The first person worth mentioning whom I came across was a scrivener. That is to say, one of those wandering scholars—a man skilled in the art of writing. He was sitting on a stone near a little brook that ran bubbling from the cool of the trees. He was munching at some bread and cheese as contentedly as you could wish. Alongside of him in the grass lay a long round bundle wrapped in a dirty cloth. Beside this lay a handful of quills and a horn in which he carried his ink. His appearance was nothing to boast of. His forehead and hands were streaked and smeared black and a full week’s growth of beard covered his face. And the worst thing about him was his clothes—an ill-fitting suit of velvet of dark blue, spotted and ragged, which some one had given him. At the first sight of me his jaw fell agape. The bread which he had just stuffed into his mouth fell in crumbs over his knees. His eyes glared at me as though they would start from their sockets. I thought a kind of fright had overtaken him, but in the next second he jumped to his feet with the lightness of a hare and laid his hand over his heart in a way that reminded me strongly of De Marsac. Then he swept the ground with his soiled cap and bowed. “My Lord,” he said with the utmost seriousness, “I am alone. I lack company. Will you be gracious enough to dine with me?” At that he straightened up and smiled. “I am no lord,” I answered with a twinkle in my eye. “Nor am I hungry. I have a long ride ahead of me and must be on my way.” With that I made to be off. But the scrivener seemed to have no hearing. He clapped his cap upon his head and with a skip was out in the middle of the road. “If you are not a noble,” he said with his grin spreading from ear to ear, “you ought to be. But I am sure of one thing——” He let the last words trail in the air as though he would puzzle me. “What’s that?” I asked. “Your horse is!” he cried. And then he bent over and laughed as though he had made the smartest remark in the world. I was feeling uneasy. The thought came to me that I was wasting my time with a madman and the sooner I could get off from him the better. “Well,” I replied dryly, “maybe he is. But don’t let me interrupt your meal.” I looked down the road to let him know that I was anxious to be off. The hint was wasted, for he stepped in close to the roan and started to stroke him on the neck, muttering and mumbling to himself words of the highest praise. He twisted his head to the one side like a bird on a perch and winked at me knowingly. “Do you know what I’d give for this horse?” he demanded. “He’s not for sale,” I said with some abruptness. But he went on as though I had not spoken. “I’d give everything I have,” he burst out. “I’d give my parchment, my inkhorn and my quills. And I’d be willing to forget all I know of the art of writing, if I could call him my own!” I almost laughed in his face. “You’re generous, master scrivener,” said I, and once more gathered in the reins. But he was not to be so easily shaken off. He made a pretense of great affection for the animal. He laid his cheek against its head. He took to stroking its mane. Then he looked up into my face with a cunning leer. “Do you know,” he began slyly, “I don’t believe the horse is yours at all.” “What!” said I. “Do you take me for a thief?” “Ah!” he exclaimed, raising his brows. “I’ve hit a soft spot, now, haven’t I? Why, it’s true then that you gentlemen of the road are as touchy as a flock of crows.” I was almost overcome. That I would be taken for a highwayman was far from what I had ever dreamed. “Look here!” I called. “Take your hand from that horse. I’ll give you till I count ‘three.’ If you’re not out of the way then, I’ll ride you down.” The scrivener paid me no more attention than he would a fly. Without taking his eyes from me, he reached into his belt and drew forth a dagger. As he held it in the air, I saw that it was of unusual value and workmanship. The blade was as thin as a blade of grass and rang to his touch like the finest steel. Besides, the haft shone with a brightness that could hardly be believed, for it was not only of the clearest silver but was set with a scattering of brilliant stones. “Let’s start the bargaining over again, my lord,” he said. “Will you exchange your horse for this?” I was at my wit’s end. I was sure now that he was not only a madman but a knave as well. The longer I lingered there with him, the more dangerous seemed my situation. I set my jaws in resolution. He must have noticed the expression on my face, for he reached out and grasped the bridle firmly in his hand. At the same time he held out the weapon in the hope it would strike my fancy. “Who is the thief now, master scrivener?” I asked. “Wouldn’t you like to have it?” he questioned with another sly wink. “It’s yours for the taking—if you will only give me your horse.” At that he began tossing the dagger over his head and with much deftness catching it again in his hand. I sat watching him with anger swelling in my heart. Higher and higher the dagger went. The more difficult the catch, the easier it seemed to him. At length it rose far over his head, spinning and twirling like a leaf in the wind. Then a thought came to me. With one grasp I reached far out. By merest chance I caught the weapon by the hilt. I sank my heels into the horse’s flank. In his amazement the scrivener loosed his hold on the bridle and I was free from him. Before I was out of hearing I drew the horse to a stop. I turned and saw the scrivener standing in the middle of the road. He had his hands flat over his hips and was grinning with all his might. I held the dagger on high. “Do you see this?” I called. “I am going to keep it until I find the man to whom it belongs.” His answer sent the chills down my spine. “Fine!” he shouted. “Take it to the Abbot of Chalonnes!” |
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