The Messenger of the Black Prince 15

The Messenger of the Black Prince 15

With nervous fingers I put the parchment back again. The one fellow who

had faced me first came over and jerked me roughly to my feet. Then, as

though I were a log, shoved me back until I fell into the chair.

 

“Where did you get that dagger?” he demanded. He had picked the weapon

from the floor and had thrown it on the table.

 

“I took it from a man on the road,” said I.

 

“Was it a short fellow—a churchman—dressed like an Abbot?” he asked

further.

 

I was loath to give these rascals more information than was good for

them so my answer was as short as I could make it.

 

“I don’t know whether he was an Abbot or not,” I said. “I couldn’t

tell.”

 

They looked at each other in alarm.

 

“If he’s in the neighborhood,” said the first, “we’d better get out.”

 

The other came forward into the light of the fire. His hand was bandaged

with a strip of an old shirt and the blood was caked where it had oozed

through and hardened.

 

“Do you know me?” he asked.

 

“You tried to kill me in the woods,” I said, without lifting my eyes.

 

“Do you see this?” he went on.

 

I looked at his hand.

 

“It’s cut to the bone,” he said, threateningly. “It’ll take weeks for it

to heal.” He narrowed his eyes till they were mere slits and studied me.

“You’re going to pay for this, do you hear?”

 

I said nothing, but looked helplessly around.

 

The first fellow had his gaze upon the floor. He was worried, that I

plainly saw. Then, after a little, he touched this fellow on the

shoulder.

 

“Let’s put him out of the way,” he said, glancing towards me. “If we’re

caught here, we’ll be in a trap ourselves.”

 

They were both willing, but still some doubt held them in leash.

 

“If we do,” was the answer, “what will De Marsac say? You know he wants

him” (meaning me) “for a purpose.”

 

The word De Marsac struck strangely on my ears.

 

“Oh!” I exclaimed. “De Marsac had better look out for himself. There is

some one on his heels.”

 

They turned to me together like a flash.

 

“What!” they exclaimed. “Who?”

 

“The Black Prince!” I called boldly. “He will——”

 

They laughed in my face.

 

“The Black Prince is on his way to the west to join the starving

remnants of his army,” I was told. “We thought you meant the Abbot of

Chalonnes.”

 

My mouth fell agape. I searched their faces and they searched mine. The

fellow who had grappled with me first made a signal to the other, and

turned towards the table to pick up the dagger. The man with the wounded

hand slouched over towards me. He had his good fist curled in a knot, no

doubt to crash it against my skull.

 

I felt that it was my end. I took a firm hold on the arms of the chair

to dodge or fight them to the last of my strength.

 

The door suddenly flew back on its hinges and banged against the wall.

Both men jumped and in my tenseness I jumped with them. They stood with

frightened faces looking towards the entrance.

 

A form appeared—the form of a little man clad in rags, smeared with ink

and dirt so that his face was hardly to be seen. His beard was clotted

with mire where he had been sleeping in the open. His quills and

ink-horn and roll of parchment were gone but he still wore the same

curious grin that I had noticed earlier in the day.

 

With one skip he was in the middle of the room. He clapped the fellow

with the injured hand roundly on the back and cried in a voice of glee.

 

“Well, I see you have him at last!”

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER X

THE HIGHWAYMAN OF TOURS

 

 

The three of us turned with amazement on our faces. Before a word was

spoken the scrivener bounded clear across the room. He came to a stop

before the table and took the dagger in his hand. Then he faced us.

 

“Now,” said he, “I should like to know who gave you permission to befoul

my house?”

 

He spoke in a high, commanding key. One of the fellows shifted slowly to

the side of the room. The other looked uneasily about. The scrivener,

who held his head, pointed at each of them in turn with the dagger.

 

“Do you know, my gentles,” he demanded in a terrible voice, “who I am?”

 

The two men knotted their brows, puzzled. One of them bit his lips and

the other growled under his breath and flashed a knowing look at his

companion. It was a hint, I knew, that at the first chance they would

make the attack together.

 

The scrivener seemed to consider them as children. He took his soiled

cap from his head and flung it on the floor.

 

“Do you know me now?” he cried. “Have you never heard of

‘Will-o’-the-wisp’?”

 

As though they had been struck by a club, both men drooped and turned

instinctively towards the door. Then they called out loud enough for me

to hear, “The highwayman of Tours!”

 

The scrivener snapped his fingers in the air. Then like a showman he

took the dagger by the point. He gave it a twist and sent it spinning

towards the floor. It struck and buried itself in the wood, where it

stood quivering like a living thing.

 

“‘The highwayman of Tours!’” he echoed after them. “The only man who

ever had the courage to stand before the Abbot of Chalonnes and flaunt

him to his face. That dagger there I took from him—with a dozen of his

followers at his back. I was the only man in all the country round to

meet the Dwarf of Angers—alone—unarmed—in the woods—at night. I killed

the Dwarf and threw his body into the waters of the Loire.” He stopped

and laughed a long, weird, tormenting laugh that rang through the room

like the echo of a ghost. “The man who is my enemy is foredoomed to

die!”

 

A chill crept along my spine. A sullen look spread over the faces of my

two captors. They exchanged glances once again and grinned.

 

“You can’t fool us with talk like that,” said one. “We’re men.”

 

The scrivener whistled a quick, sharp note and with the ease of a kitten

sprang upon the table.

 

“There is a price upon my head!” he called. Then he pointed to the

dagger. “If either of you has the boldness to collect it, let him pluck

that weapon from the floor.”

 

The fellow who had spoken brightened up. He lurched forward. His huge

body bent over and his arm reached out to take the scrivener at his

word. But his slow brain had reckoned without thought to the

consequences. He had no sooner taken a step when the scrivener raised

himself on the balls of his feet. He shot through the air with the

straightness and speed of an arrow. He landed with all his weight on the

back of his enemy. His one hand encircled his throat. The other, by a

calculation as unerring as it was quick, caught the dagger by the hilt.

 

There followed a struggle that I shall not soon forget. The scrivener

twisted his lithe body like a snake. He squirmed around and before I

could wink was on top of his foe. He was smiling as though he was highly

pleased with the dagger now raised ready for the descending blow.

 

He knew that the second fellow would not allow his companion to be

killed. He halted the weapon so that it rested not more than an inch

from his opponent’s throat.

 

“One move and you’re a dead man!” he cried. Then he looked to the side.

He saw the other coming on with venom in his eyes.

 

“Take your choice,” he called to him. “Lay a finger on me and you’re

this man’s murderer!”

 

The fellow stopped. In the twinkling of an eye the scrivener sprang to

his feet. He faced the two with his face lit up and a confidence that

was amazing. The man with the wounded hand slid his hand into his shirt.

He drew forth a long knife with a curved blade. He ran his tongue over

his lips to moisten them and with one bound made for his enemy.

 

I expected to see him run the scrivener through. But once again his

quickness surprised me. He sprang onto the table again with even greater

suppleness than before. This time he jumped feet foremost. He caught the

fellow in the middle of the chest. The knife went flying from his hand

and he was hurled back against the wall. His head struck with a thump

and his knees buckled under him as he sagged to the floor.

 

Up to this time the action had been so fast and so unexpected that I was

hardly able to take a breath let alone take a part in it. But when I saw

the knife flying across the room my senses stirred within me. I saw the

second fellow take a hasty glance at the knife. He moved with all his