Black Bartlemy's Treasure Part 2

Come, at least this night you shall find comfort and shelter."

"No," says I. "No--I am a thing of the roads, and well enough in hedge or rick!" and I would have turned but her hand upon my sleeve restrained me.

"Sir," says she, "be you what you will, you are a man! Who you are I know and care not--but you have this night wrought that I shall nevermore forget and now I--we--would fain express our grat.i.tude--"

"Indeed and indeed!" said the maid Marjorie, speaking for the first time.

"I want no grat.i.tude!" says I, mighty gruff.

"Yet shall it follow thee, for the pa.s.sion of grat.i.tude is strong and may not be denied--even by beggar so proud and arrogant!" And now, hearkening to this voice, so deep and soft and strangely sweet, I knew not if she laughed at me or no; but even as I debated this within myself, she lifted my hand, the hand that grasped the knife, and I felt the close, firm pressure of two warm, soft lips; then she had freed me and I fell back a step, striving for speech yet finding none.

"G.o.d love me!" quoth I at last. "Why must you--do so!"

"And wherefore not?" she questioned proudly.

"'Tis the hand of a vagrant, an outcast, a poor creeper o' ditches!"

says I.

"But a man's hand!" she answered.

"'Tis at hand that hath slain once this night and shall slay again ere many hours be sped." Now here I heard her sigh as one that is troubled.

"And yet," says she gently, "'tis no murderer's hand and you that are vagrant and outcast are no rogue."

"How judge ye this, having never seen me?" I questioned.

"In that I am a woman. For G.o.d hath armed our weakness with a gift of knowledge whereby we may oft-times know truth from falsehood, the n.o.ble from the base, 'spite all their outward seeming. So do I judge you no rogue--a strong man but very--aye, very young that, belike, hath suffered unjustly, and being so young art fierce and impatient of all things, and apt to rail bitterly 'gainst the world. Is't not so?"

"Aye," says I, marvelling, "truly 'tis like witchcraft--mayhap you will speak me my name." At this she laughed (most wonderful to hear and vastly so to such coa.r.s.e rogue as I, whose ears had long been strangers to aught but sounds of evil and foul obscenity):

"Nay," says she, "my knowledge of you goeth no further--but--" (and here she paused to fetch a shuddering breath) "but for him you killed--that two-legged beast! You did but what I would have done for--O man, had you not come I--I should have killed him, maid though I am! See, here is the dagger I s.n.a.t.c.hed from his girdle as he strove with me. O, take it--take it!" And, with a pa.s.sionate gesture, she thrust the weapon into my grasp.

"O madam--my lady!" cried her companion, "Look, yonder be lights--lanthorns aflare on the road. 'Tis Gregory as I do think, with folk come to seek for us. Shall we go meet them?"

"Nay wait, child--first let us be sure!" So side by side we stood all three amid the dripping trees, watching the tossing lights that grew ever nearer until we might hear the voices of those that bare them, raised, ever and anon, in confused shouting.

"Aye, 'tis Gregory!" sighed my lady after some while. "He hath raised the village and we are safe--"

"Hark!" cried I, starting forward. "What name do they cry upon?"

"Mine, sir!"

"Oho, my lady!" roared the hoa.r.s.e chorus. "Oho, my Lady Joan--my Lady Brandon--Brandon--Brandon!"

"Brandon!" cried I, choking upon the word.

"Indeed, sir--I am the Lady Joan Brandon of Shene Manor, and so long as life be mine needs must I bear within my grateful heart the memory of--"

But, waiting for no more, I turned and sprang away into the denser gloom of the wood. And ever as I went, cras.h.i.+ng and stumbling through the underbrush, above the noise of my headlong flight rang the hated name of the enemy I had journeyed so far to kill--"Brandon! Brandon!

Brandon!"

CHAPTER II

HOW I HEARD A SONG IN THE WOOD AT MIDNIGHT

Headlong went I, staying for nought and heedless of all direction, but presently, being weary and short of breath, I halted and leaning against a tree stood thus very full of bitter thought. The storm was quite pa.s.sed, but a chill wind was abroad that moaned dismally, while all about me sodden trees dripped with mournful, sobbing noises. And hearkening to all this, what should I be thinking but of the sweet, soft tones of a woman's voice that had stirred within me memories of better days, a voice that had set me to dreams of a future, to fond and foolish imaginings. For, though shamed and brutalised by my sufferings, I was a man and in this past hour (strange though it do seem) felt scorn of myself and a yearning for higher things, and all this by no greater reason than the sound of a woman's voice in the dark and the touch of her warm lips on my hand--and she a Brandon! And now as the bitter mockery of it all rushed upon me, fierce anger swept me and I broke forth into vile oaths and cursings, English and Spanish, foul invectives picked up from the rogues, my fellows in misery; and feeling a new shame therefore, did but curse the more. So there crouched I 'gainst the tree, s.h.i.+vering like the miserable wretch I was and consumed with a ravening hunger. At last, becoming aware that I yet grasped a weapon in either hand, I thrust my knife in my girdle and fell to handling this other, judging it by touch since it was yet too dark for eyes to serve me. And by its feel I knew it for no honest knife; here was a thing wrought by foreign hands, a haft cunningly shaped and wrought, a blade curiously slender and long and three-edged, a very deadly thing I judged by the feel. Now since it had no sheath (and it so sharp) I twisted my neckerchief about it from pommel to needle-point, and thrusting it into the leathern wallet at my belt, went on some way further 'mid the trees, seeking some place where I might be sheltered from the cold wind. Then, all at once, I heard that which brought me to a stand.

A man was singing and at no great distance, a strange, merry air and stranger words; and the voice was loud, yet tuneful and mellow, and the words (the which I came to know all too well) were these:

"Cheerly O and cheerly O, Right cheerly I'll sing O, Whiles at the mainyard to and fro We watch a dead man swing O.

With a rumbelow and to and fro He by the neck doth swing O!

One by the knife did part wi' life And three the bullet took O, But three times three died plaguily A-wriggling on a hook O.

A hook both strong and bright and long, They died by gash o' hook O.

So cheerly O and cheerly O, Come shake a leg, lads, all O.

Wi' a yo-ho-ho and a rumbelow And main-haul, s.h.i.+pmates, haul O.

Some swam in rum to kingdom come, Full many a l.u.s.ty fellow.

And since they're dead I'll lay my head They're flaming now in h.e.l.l O.

So cheerly O, so cheerly O"--

Waiting for no more of the vile rant I strode forward and thus presently came on a small dell or dingle full of the light of a fire that crackled right merrily; at the which most welcome sight I made s.h.i.+ft to scramble down the steepy bank forthright and approached the blaze on eager feet. Drawing near, I saw the fire burned within a small cave beneath the bank, and as I came within its radiance the song broke off suddenly and a man rose up, facing me across the fire and with one hand hid under the flap of his side pocket.

"Fibs off your popps, cull!" quoth in the vernacular of the roads.

"Here's none but a pal as lacketh warmth and a bite!"

"Aha!" quoth the fellow, peering across the blaze, "And who be you?

Stand and give a show o' your figurehead!" Obediently I stood with hands outspread to the flame, warming my s.h.i.+vering body at its grateful heat.

"Well?" says I.

"Why," quoth he, nodding, "You're big enough and wild enough and as likely a cut-throat as another--what's the lay?"

"The high pad!" says I.

"Where away?"

"'Tis no matter!"

"All I asks is," quoth the fellow with a quizzical look, "how you've fobbed the nubbing-cheat so long!"

"And what I ask is," quoth I, "how a sailor-man comes to know the patter o' the flash coves!"

"'Tis no matter," says he, "but since you're o' the Brotherhood sit ye and welcome, 'tis dry enough here in this cave."