Troubadour Tales 10
But in a few minutes Hugo’s regular breathing told that he was again
deep asleep.
Geoffrey then hastened to make his way back to the window, though he
found the sword in its heavy scabbard rather an awkward burden for a
little boy, and it became still more awkward as he prepared to climb
between the bars. He first thought he would take the sword out of its
sheath; but then how could he drop it to the gallery below without
making a noise? He could not climb out with it in his arms. So, on
second thought, he decided to leave it in the scabbard, whose metal
hook he saw might be useful; then lifting this, which took all his
strength, he carefully thrust it outside between the bars, on one of
which he hung the hook, thus keeping both sword and sheath from falling.
He next turned his attention to getting himself out, and climbing up,
and squeezing and squirming, legs first, at last managed once more to
stand outside on the gallery floor. But it had happened that just as he
was making the last twist through the bars, his foot had accidentally
touched the scabbard, hanging from the window, and it clanked against
the wall. This time the sound seemed to penetrate the ears of the
sleeping Count Hugo, for he started up in earnest, though not entirely
awake; he drowsily arose, however, and crossed over to the window.
Geoffrey, meantime, hearing him coming, drew back into the shadow,
tightly clutching the sword, and was hidden by the curtain of vines.
As the count peered through the bars, he caught sight of the cockatoo,
whose perch was in one of the gable windows near by. Now, as good luck
had it, the cockatoo also had been half aroused from his sleep, and
giving a faint screech, began to shift uneasily in his dreams, from one
leg to the other, his chain clanking against his perch as he did so.
Count Hugo hearing him, at once supposed the cockatoo responsible for
that other clanking sound which had aroused him; he swore a round oath,
and turned from the window, muttering to himself, “A plague on that
jabbering popinjay! What with their everlasting peacocks and monkeys,
and heaven only knows what, a man can not get a wink of sleep in this
accursed tavern!” He then went back to bed and, angrily flinging
himself down, was soon snoring soundly.
After a while, Geoffrey, outside on the gallery, began creeping
cautiously along, and at last managing to get down the stairway, stood
hesitating a moment at its foot; for he had not fully decided what to
do with the sword, now that he had it. He wished as soon as possible to
be rid of the wicked thing; for everybody was superstitious in those
days, and he felt that some fearful evil threatened him so long as he
had hold of the fatal weapon. He would really have very much liked to
take it out and throw it in the river Dives, so it could never kill
any one else; but as he remembered that to do this he would have to
climb over the high wall of the courtyard, for the gate was locked and
the portcullis down, and that then he would have to run the risk of
meeting the town watchman, he concluded the chances for being caught
were too many, and that he must hide the sword elsewhere. Moreover, he
thought that to drop it in the river would be too much like stealing,
anyway, which he did not wish to be guilty of; he merely wished to keep
the count from finding the sword until the heralds came, when he was
willing to restore it.
So quickly making up his mind, he sped down into the garden, where he
carefully hid it, scabbard and all, under a thick tangle of vines and
shrubbery which grew in a secluded corner where the inn people seldom
went. This done, he made his way back to his own little chamber under
one of the gables, and crept into bed, although he was so excited with
his night’s doings that he could not go to sleep.
The next day, as was his custom, Count Hugo lay abed till the sun was
well up, for the duel was not to take place until beyond the middle of
the morning. When at last he arose, and his serving men came in to wait
on him as he made his toilet, they adjusted all his ruffles and laces
with the greatest nicety, freshly curled his wig, tied up his queue
with a crimson ribbon, and smoothed out his velvets and satins; then
everything being ready, they looked about for the sword, without which
Hugo never budged an inch. But when they turned to where he told them
he had left it the night before, to their great consternation, it was
not there! When they timidly ventured to tell the count that he must
have put it somewhere else, Hugo, who was busy arranging a heavy gold
chain about his lace collar, curtly replied, without turning his head:
“Ye blind moles of the earth! I tell you it _is_ there!”
But when again they were obliged to contradict him, the count flew into
a temper, and rushing over to the foot of the bed, put out his hand to
seize the sword and give them a wrathful prick or two all round—but
lo! sure enough, it was _not_ there!
There then followed a tremendous uproar. They searched the room from
end to end; they tore down all the old tapestries; they peered under
all the chairs; they climbed up and crawled all over the high canopy
of the ancient bed; they shook the mattresses; and in their zeal, even
looked in the count’s shaving mug and under the brass candlesticks.
Meantime, Hugo himself, in a towering passion, was striding up and
down the room, cuffing his pages, accusing everybody of robbery, and
threatening right and left to hang every man of them if the sword were
not instantly found!
At last, however, neither threats nor rage proving of the least avail
in bringing to light the lost sword, he descended, followed by his
terrified retinue, to the inn courtyard, and calling out Monsieur
Jean, he stirred up another terrible commotion. He accused everybody
of everything, and finally wound up by insisting that the craven Count
Boni had hired some robber to steal the sword in hopes that the duel
might not be fought. He swore that he would none the less kill poor
Boni, sword or no sword, and meantime ordered the man-at-arms, who had
slept outside his door, to be mercilessly beaten; for Hugo declared the
thief must have entered through the door, as no man could possibly have
come in between the bars of the window.
At this Geoffrey, who had been up for a long while, and had witnessed
all this uproar in the courtyard, felt himself in a very unhappy
position; he had not expected all this. Indeed, he had given very
little thought as to what might happen to himself or anybody else,
when once he had hidden the sword. He knew now that fearful punishment
awaited him if he were found out; but he could not bear to have the
good Count Boni’s honor blackened, or that the poor man-at-arms, who
was entirely innocent of blame, should suffer, because of what he,
Geoffrey, had done.
So biting his lips hard to keep up his courage and tightly clenching
his hands behind him, Geoffrey, who was a brave, manly little fellow,
straightway strode out and, standing in front of the raging Count Hugo,
said:
“Sir, neither Count Boni nor yonder man-at-arms had aught to do with
the loss of your evil sword. I took it away myself!”
[Illustration]
At this Count Hugo stared at the little boy for a moment in speechless
surprise. Then, roaring out a terrible oath in a voice like thunder, he
pounced like a wildcat upon poor Geoffrey, and shook him till his teeth
chattered.
“Thou—thou—miserable varlet!” roared and sputtered the count.
“Thou base-born knave! So thy monkey fingers have dared to meddle
with my precious sword! Faugh! Where hast thou put it? Tell me
instantly,—_parbleu!_—or I will crack every bone in thy worthless
body!”
And here he fell so viciously to shaking and cuffing him again, that
poor Geoffrey could hardly open his mouth to answer; but at length he
managed to gasp out resolutely:
“I will not tell thee till to-morrow. Then I will restore it to thee! I
do not wish to keep the heathenish thing!”
At this the rage of the count knew no bounds, and he doubtless would
have killed the poor little boy then and there, had not Monsieur Jean
and others among the terrified spectators rushed between them and
besought Hugo to be merciful, and give the boy at least till the morrow
to fulfil his word.
Hereupon, the count, who even in his wrath saw reason in what they
said, savagely flung Geoffrey over to one of his men-at-arms,
commanding him to chastise him, chain him, and keep close watch over
him till the morrow. For the count reflected that if he should hang
the boy then, as he fully intended to do by and by, he would cut off
the only possible means of finding out where his sword was hidden. For
while the lad was stubborn as a rock, Hugo had to admit that he seemed
honest, and so perhaps would keep his promise to restore his prized
weapon.
But the more the count thought of Geoffrey’s act, the more it puzzled
him to account for it. As he recalled the disturbance of his sleep
the night before, he began to understand that Geoffrey was the real
cockatoo of the affair.
“Faugh!” he said to himself, “to think ’twas the clanking of my
own good sword that I mistook for the rattling of that chattering
popinjay’s chain!” But he could not account for the boy’s curious
promise to restore the weapon on the morrow. If he meant to return it,
why did he take it at all? And why did he confess and get himself into
trouble, when no one thought of accusing him? The first part of this
question Count Hugo could not answer, because he knew nothing of the
coming of the heralds and Geoffrey’s wish to put off the duel; while
the last part was equally puzzling to him, because he had no sense of
honor, and could not see why one should suffer if an innocent man would
do just as well.
At any rate, he soon tired trying to understand the matter. Having
placed the boy in safe keeping till the morrow, the next thing was to
have his “second”—(for so the friends were called who arranged the
details of duels for those who were to do the fighting)—see Count
Boni’s second, who had arrived some time before, and have the duel
fixed for the following morning, when Count Hugo vowed he would fight
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