  We came to the ‘Three Crows’ about the middle of the afternoon. The place was set in somewhat from the road and like the scrivener’s house, almost surrounded by trees. It must have been a hundred years old. The walls were of wood rough hewn from the forest. In some places the bark still hung in shreds where it waved in the breeze. The logs themselves were as brown as walnuts where the rain had beaten upon them. The windows were quite small—hardly large enough for a man to climb through and to judge by the cob-webs and dust had not been cleaned for ages. The scrivener had been swinging along with me the whole day. He was as lighthearted as a kitten. The thought of the danger we were approaching never seemed to enter his mind. Even when we crossed the green that was between the inn and the road he was whistling a tune and smiling away as hard as you please. Then he suddenly grasped me by the arm. “They are playing bowls,” he exclaimed. “Look there!” To be sure, I saw two men at the end of a long alley on the green. They were at bowls, as the scrivener said. That is, they had pins set up and were rolling smooth round rocks or stones at them to knock them down. It was nothing new to me for I am sure that you will find the same sport in the smallest village in France. I was about to ask what there was unusual about it all when he clapped me on the back. “Have you any money?” he demanded with some eagerness. “A little,” I answered. Then the thought came to me that he made his living by tricks and even more questionable means. For all I knew he might have at the back of his head some scheme or other to rob me of what money I had. So I asked him cautiously, “Why?” “I’m going to double it,” he replied in an off-hand way. We made directly for the bowling-place. The scrivener strutted over to the men with all the airs of a great baron with an army at his back. He clapped his hands when a good stroke was made. He let out a loud “ah” when the stone rolled out of its track and missed the pins. He capered from one end of the alley to the other, following the stone and talking to it encouragingly as though it had life. He clapped the players on the back. In short he did all in his power to make a show of himself. From where I stood it struck me that he was acting like a fool. But at that time I did not know the man. I realized that he could masquerade in a dozen different rÔles, but I little imagined that he was able to alter the character of his disposition. Finally the play came to an end. The winner—a tall gaunt man whose name was Nicole—straightened himself and puffed out his chest. The scrivener was on him in an instant. He shook him by the hand. He beamed in his face. “A master!” he cried. “You can play almost as well as I can play myself.” Nicole’s smile faded. He looked down at the scrivener and frowned. “For ten years,” he said, “I’ve beaten every man who has set his foot upon this green.” The scrivener struck him a hard blow upon the chest. Then he laughed a high mocking laugh. “A fine boast!” he cried and snapped his fingers under Nicole’s nose. “Well, the tenth year will be your last.” The fire gathered in the man’s eye. The blow was humiliating enough but the words cut him like a sharp knife. He swallowed hard and flung one hand out. “Will you play with me?” he demanded. “——for money?” asked the scrivener. “For the clothes on your back, if you will,” was the reply. At that the scrivener leaped into the air. He placed his hand on the ground and turned a circle as neatly as he had done on the day I met him at the forge. Then he stuck his hand in his shirt and looked as important as a prince. “Boy!” he called to me as though I were his servant. “Come here and count me ten crowns from my purse.” He turned to Nicole. “This lad of mine carries my wealth. If we are beset by thieves, no one would look to him for the money. Is not that a wise trick?” He laughed loud again as though he might be proud of his cunning. I hesitated. I tried to make an estimate of what was going on in his mind. I was wavering in uncertainty, when he snapped me a wink from the corner of his eye. “Not so slow!” he commanded. Then when I counted the money, he threw it contemptuously on the grass. “Ten crowns, Nicole,” he said. “That will be one for every year you have been the master of bowls.” Nicole drew forth a well-worn leather purse such as merchants carry. With a sly smile he looked sideways at the scrivener and slowly counted out the money. This he threw piece by piece on the grass. It was as though he was trying to shake the scrivener’s nerves with his deliberation. With a bound the scrivener seized the stone ball. He swung it around his head two or three times, spinning on his heel. He drew far back and came forward on the run. He let out a warning shout. He was about to make the heave when to the amazement of all, his feet slid from under him. The stone rolled harmlessly to the side of the green. The scrivener fell on his back and his heels kicked in the air. It was a ridiculous situation of course. In the beginning I was burning with anger that he should make such a show of himself. But when I considered the nature of the man, his unexpected whims and fancies, I knew that he was playing a rÔle that would be wise enough in the end. When he arose he looked crestfallen. With a serious expression on his face he brushed the dirt away from his clothes. He even growled under his breath at his poor luck. Nicole was standing with his arms folded across his chest as proudly as though he were already the victor. He took forth his purse once more and held it dangling in his fingers. With a taunting sneer he winked at me and then turned to the scrivener. “Another ten?” he asked with raised brows. “You must be a rich man,” the scrivener replied. “Are you a merchant that you have so much to waste?” “I make my living from such as you,” Nicole answered, “——who think they can play—and can’t!” At this cut the scrivener flew into a rage. He threw his arms above his head and paced up and down. He jerked his fists convulsively. “It was a slip,” he cried. “Only a slip. I know I can do better than that.” He spat upon the ground as though he had finally come to a resolution. “Henri!” he cried. “Twenty crowns more!” Then in a flash to Nicole, “Have you the courage?” he demanded. In a trice the coins were on the ground, both mine and the stranger’s. Then they went at it again. At the first stroke the scrivener lagged far behind. At the second his nerves grew more collected. After a little he was skillful enough to topple over all the pins with the one try. As the game went on he began a running talk with Nicole. His voice grew high. He made light of his opponent’s efforts. He counseled him to stand this way or that. He interrupted him at the moment when he was about to cast the stone. He clapped him on the back when he made a bad play and comforted him with the hope that he would do better on the next try. In short he did all in his power to confuse him. The ruse worked well. Nicole played with a sort of canny caution. But when the scrivener had equaled his score, his nerves gave way on him. He took more time to poise himself before the cast. He fussed about to be sure of his footing. His brows narrowed and an expression of intense seriousness crossed his face. Towards the end it was nip and tuck. Now Nicole was ahead, now the scrivener. The longer the game lasted, the more boastful my companion became. He took to strutting about between shots like a cock-o’-the-walk. He wanted to double the money he had laid on himself. He shouted aloud that he was the master of the best man in the Kingdom of France. He said he could prove it with a wager that would be the ransom for a prince. Then at last just when Nicole was measuring the green with his eye he let out a whoop, turned one of his somersaults, put his knuckles in his mouth and whistled so shrilly that it rent the very air. The stone that Nicole held in his hand shot forward. But the scrivener had done his work. It flew in full career down the middle of the green. Then it seemed to strike a tuft of hidden grass for it bounced a little in the air and veered over towards the side. It struck the pins however, but only slightly. Three of the nine were tumbled over and the rest left standing. The scrivener raised the stone. He walked to the green with his head high. He made the cast without so much as an aim, but I saw that he put all his force behind it. It sped on in a straight line. It crashed in among the pins with the straightness and speed of an arrow. It hit the middle one and sent it leaping over to the side. The stone continued on its course in among the others. They fell one by one in quick succession until the last spun around and rolled in a semi-circle out over the green. At that the scrivener snapped his fingers and gave a cry. He turned to Nicole. “You have seven still to make,” he said. “I have only two to win. Will you——” Nicole had had enough. With a frown of disappointment he waved his hand towards the green and then towards the money. “It is yours,” he said. “I never played so poorly in my life.” He was soured to the core. But with all that I picked up the coins and put them in my purse. We went into the inn and sat down at a long oaken table. Soon we had the meat before us and were eating to our hearts’ content. It was well on towards dark when we finished. One by one the country gossips entered and took their places. The landlord lit the oil lanthorn that hung from the ceiling. Its yellow rays cast flitting shadows about the room. The air was heavy from the odor of the cooking and the dampness of the clay floor. The scrivener eyed every stranger in the place as keenly as though he were cutting him open with a knife. He began to yawn. He bade me fling a coin on the table to pay the score and make ready for bed. We stood up. We were about to turn when the door of the inn flew open with a bang. I jumped as though the floor had suddenly given way. We both turned. In the next second my heart sank to my shoes, for in the wavering light of the lanthorn I saw De Marsac with half a dozen troopers at his back peering eagerly over his shoulders. He strode to the middle of the floor and whirled searchingly around. When his eyes rested on us, he raised his arm and pointed. “I knew I would find you here!” he cried. His voice was shaking between joy and anger. “I have caught you like mice in a trap!” I looked searchingly at the scrivener. He stood with his hands at his side as unmoved as a piece of marble, with only the flicker of a smile playing about the edges of his mouth. “It is my friend, De Marsac!” he cried. “You have indeed cornered us at last.” A chill shot down my spine. De Marsac flung out his arm. “Seize them!” he called. “Bind them till the thongs cut into their flesh. Let one of you stand guard over them for the night.” He spun on his heel. His men rushed at us as though we were mad dogs. In the twinkling of an eye we were thrown to the floor and lashed hand and foot with thongs of deer hide. De Marsac halted at the door. “Tomorrow, at the break of day, they are to be hanged upon the nearest tree!” In the next breath he was lost in the dark. |
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