  It was far into the night when the scrivener returned. The first quarter of the moon was all the light we had, but even at that how he made his way through the gloom of the trees was more than I could guess. He had left me in a spot that was far back from the highway where there was no path nor even a rock to guide him. But he was as unerring as one of his arrows. “We have been outlawed,” he said with a laugh. “There’s a price on our heads.” “Ah!” was all that I could say. “It’s posted in the inn,” he explained, “and on some of the trees, for him who can to read. Fifty crowns for each of us, dead or alive.” He clapped me playfully on the shoulder. “It’s more than I ever counted myself to be worth.” I knotted my brows. For all his gaiety I felt a chill climb slowly up my back. I was little more than an animal to be a target for all mankind. “We’re done for, then,” I said and sighed. “If they catch us,” he replied. “Even if they do, we have fifty arrows and two strong bows. If you can shoot, that will mean that fifty of them will drop before they lay hands on us. Don’t you think the odds are in our favor?” I was not so sure. “Fifty crowns is a large sum,” I said half to myself. “A man will go far for that.” The scrivener made no answer but laid a bundle on the ground, which he spread out with the greatest care. In the light of the moon I saw him quietly smiling to himself. “I’ve brought enough for a week,” he said, “cheese and bread and smoked meat. While they are running mad in search of us, we can live like kings.” With all my fears, I was as hungry as a bear. The two of us sat down upon the hard ground with a flat stone for a table. We ate in silence, for each of us was busy with his own thoughts. Now and then I caught the scrivener glancing up at me through his brows with that quaint smile on his face, as though he was secretly amused. “I can go with you until we come into the country of the Abbot of Chalonnes,” he said suddenly. “After that it will be for you to shift for yourself.” “Scrivener,” said I, “who is this Abbot of Chalonnes?” “He’s a strong man, Henri,” came the answer. “A man to be feared.” “But what is his importance?” I demanded. “Has he an army? Does he rule a part of France? Or is he only a churchman?” “No one knows—exactly,” replied the scrivener cautiously. “He’s as mysterious as a fox. He has power enough to move a mountain. He can break the most arrogant prince. He can tear his castle down about his ears. But his ways are dark and secret. He is seldom seen. He has no followers as far as I can learn, but somehow men are afraid to go against his will.” “But his land? Where does he live?” “That’s uncertain, too,” he explained. “——mostly in the valley of the Loire beyond the fortress of Angers.” “Have you ever seen him?” I continued. “Never! Never in my life!” The answer came quick and sudden. The scrivener sprang from the ground and looked circumspectly about. He put his hand to his ear as though he was listening to a sound and stood in utter silence for several minutes. At length he dropped his arm to his side and walked away. “I thought it was some one moving about in the woods,” he said. “It was only a deer or boar rustling the leaves.” If I hadn’t been so tired I would have laughed in his face. I was enough at home in the woods to know that there had been no sound, not even of the tiniest bird. The truth of the matter was that I had put a question to him that he was loath to answer. He had been evasive before when I tried to pry him open and now he had made this pretext to avoid me once again. I let the matter drop, but the determination lingered that at the first opportunity I would corner him and drive my questioning further. He wandered off to pick up some sticks and shreds of moss and dried grass. When he had his arm full, he returned and spread what he had gathered upon the ground. He took off his coat and laid it like a pillow under his head. Then, without a word or even a look at me, he lay down and curled himself into a knot. It was not long before he was breathing deeply and snoring like the croaking of a frog. I was weary with the day’s excitement. Perhaps the example of the scrivener set me to yawning. However it was, I was soon stretched out beside him asleep under the waving branches of the trees and the stars. It was bright day when I awoke. The scrivener was about whistling with the merriment of a lark. He had a fire going in a crevice between two craggy rocks and on it was the remains of the meat which he had brought from the inn the night before. I fell to with a good appetite. When I arose to brush the crumbs from my clothes, he took to walking about with his hands behind him, lost in study with his brow wrinkled, frowning and talking to himself, as though he was trying to solve a riddle. Then suddenly he halted before me. “We’ve got to get away from here,” he said. “It’s a wasps’ nest. They’re searching the woods. If we stay, we’ll be shot down like dogs.” I looked at him. “Lead,” said I, “and I’ll follow.” We went off among the thickest of the trees and over ground that was almost impassible for jutting rocks. We made no speed for at every dozen steps the scrivener stopped and peered around. The woods were as silent as a grave with only the faintest breeze blowing in our faces that ruffled the leaves and sighed gently over our heads. Now and then he stooped to examine the ground for signs of footsteps or of human visitation, that is, in places where there was clay or soil. On and on we went, slowly. I for my part had a stifling fear in my heart that boded no good; the scrivener as quiet and preoccupied as I had as yet seen him. By noon we had covered the length of the whole range of hills. We were come into a deep valley with a little stream winding through it. The place was dank with moisture and very dark, for the trees were well watered and the soil lost much of its rockiness. With cautious steps we went ahead. We stumbled over projecting roots and long spindling weeds. A hare started out of the underbrush and nearly frightened me to death. Not a sound did we make save the laboring of our breaths and an occasional rattle when the toe of a boot caught against a scattered stone. We were on the edge of the forest. For a moment the scrivener hesitated and gazed thoughtfully around. He touched me on the arm and with his finger bade me look ahead. The direction in which he pointed was between an opening among the trees. I peered carefully but at first saw nothing. Then, as my eyes got more accustomed to the distance, I was able to make out a thin curl of white smoke rising in the air. When it reached a level with the tops of the trees it scattered and disappeared in the sky. “We can go no further,” the scrivener said. “The whole side of the valley is filled with men.” “—searching for us?” I asked. “Yes,” he answered with a nod of his head. I knew that they were lying there to block us off. My thoughts turned this way and that. I looked at my companion for some sign or other but his face was set with the seriousness of a stone. “Do you think it so fine now to be in danger?” I cast at him. A hard smile caught at the corners of his mouth. “Have I shown fear?” he demanded. “They’re drawing a ring around us,” I said. “We’ll starve in the woods in a day or two. We’ll be as weak as cats. Then they’ll close in.” The scrivener gave a twang to his bow-string. The old spirit of his flashed out for a second and he grinned. “I wish they would close in now,” he replied. “They know the mettle of the highwayman of Tours. They know how I can strike when they least expect it. Pshaw!” He spat contemptuously on the ground. “They have all the same feeling—if they harm a hair of my head, they will die like dogs!” “If you’re not afraid, master scrivener,” I went on, “why are you so serious?” He spun around like a top. “Serious!” he exclaimed. “Do you think a man ought not to plan? Why, lad, I’m scheming as hard as I can to pull you out of this difficulty.” “—me!” I cried. He shot a look at me. “Do you think I care for myself?” he answered. “Why, lad, if I were alone, I would be on my way by this and as free as a bird in the air.” I considered for a moment. “Why have you stuck to me at all, master scrivener?” I asked slyly. “Is there a purpose to it?” He examined me suspiciously out of the corner of his eye. He rolled his forehead upwards and set his mouth to whistle a tune. I realized that he was going to evade my question as he did before. “Scrivener,” I began deliberately, “why don’t you lay aside the mask? You know you are leading me as you would a dog upon a string. Can’t you be frank enough to tell me why?” At these words he leaped in the air. He let out one long breath of surprise and threw his arms towards the sky. “Listen to him, will you!” he cried as though he were speaking with some one invisible. “Harken to his nonsense! Has there ever been——” He stopped as suddenly as he began. His arms dropped to his side. He put his finger over his mouth to caution me to silence and gazed intently far over my shoulder. Then he backed away towards the trunk of the nearest tree. “Pist!” he exclaimed under his breath. “Don’t move!” I had no time to judge whether it was one of his pranks or not, whether it was an attempt to turn a conversation that was distasteful to him. A click at my feet threw a cloud of dust in my face and sprinkled me with a shower of small stones. I looked and there standing before me was an arrow a yard long with its point buried deep in the earth. In spite of the warning I jumped up. At the same time another arrow sped past me so near and with such speed that I felt the breeze fan my cheeks. I made a leap to get within the protection of a tree when I glanced to the side and saw the scrivener lay an arrow in his bow. The string gave a twang. He followed the missile with his eyes. A slow pleased smile spread over his countenance and he turned to me. “He has shot his last shot,” he said. “Do you know who it was?” I asked. “Stay where you are,” he cautioned, “If you are threatened, run for it as fast as you can.” He disappeared among the trees. As for me, I had not seen the man who sent the arrow at all, nor was I even able to figure the exact place from which it had come. I took my bow in my hands to have it ready. I listened with all my ears for the slightest sound. I kept turning this way and that. Minute after minute passed in the utter silence of those woods. I expected the scrivener to return at almost any second. I took to pacing up and down. A nervousness stirred within me for I was growing conscious that I was next to helpless against the odds that surrounded me. Where had the scrivener gone and what was detaining him? I waited. The time went by so slowly that it seemed an age. My heart beat off the seconds as though it were counting out the span of my life. My head was now in this direction, now in that, for the fear of a surprise was strong in my mind. Then a thought struck me. Perhaps he was more in need of me than I was of him. Maybe the man who shot the arrow was only a decoy to lead him into a trap. Could it be possible that he had been captured and killed while I was loitering there in idleness? My mind was running on with one thought chasing the other. My nerves were jumping like strings. I grasped the bow in my hand and began to run. I took the same course as the scrivener. With all my speed I leaped over roots of trees, rocks and what lay in my path. I covered twice the space that an arrow could fly. I went out of my course and made a wide circle through the woods. I wound in and about here and there so that finally I returned to the spot from which I had set out. Not a sound did I hear. Not a trace of a human being did I discover. It was as though I were standing in the emptiness of a desert. I sat down on a rock to think the matter over. The more I pondered, the deeper the mystery became. To add to my concern the sun was sending slanting rays from the west. By that I was sure that in another half hour it would be dark and in that sea of enemies I would have to shift for myself. I resolved that I would make one more search. I got to my feet with much misgiving and bent my steps once again through the woods. I had not gone ten paces when I came across a dark body huddled up against the root of a tree. It was in a spot where the shadows were thickest and I had to peer closely to observe it. Then I received a shock that went through me like the stab of a dagger, for there face down in the grass lay the scrivener. In the middle of his back stuck an arrow. He must have been dragged from the place where he was killed, for his shoes were gone and his coat was ripped and torn under the arm-pits, and the old hat which he wore was crushed down over his head as though his murderer had flattened it. With a gulp in my throat as big as an apple I stooped and shook him by the arm. He was stone dead for he moved with the heaviness of a log. Then I arose and took my hat in my hands to mutter a prayer. In the next second a hand as hard as iron and as strong as a vise was laid on my shoulder. I turned my head. In the growing darkness I looked into a face that was frowning as black as night. The fellow was of about the same size as myself. He had on a coat and trousers such as the soldiers wear only they were threadbare and very ragged. A rough cap was pulled down over his eyes and a loose scarf was wound about his throat and came up over his chin. As he grinned at me I remember that a pair of silver ear-rings shook menacingly from his ears. The sight of him made me as limp as a rag. I realized instantly all that had happened. The bow fell from my grasp and I turned helplessly away. “Forward!” a rough voice commanded. At the same time I was shoved roughly in the direction of the highway. |
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