The Greatest Novels of Charles Reade. Charles Reade Reade

said Denys, waxing wroth. But the next moment he added tenderly, “and I, who could never bear to see beauty in distress.”

      “It is not for myself.”

      “Who then? your sweetheart?”

      “Oh, que nenni. My sweetheart is not on earth now: and to think I have not an ecu to buy masses for his soul;” and in this shallow nature the grief seemed now to be all turned in another direction.

      “Come, come,” said Denys, “shalt have money to buy masses for thy dead lad; I swear it. Meantime tell me why you weep.”

      “For you.”

      “For me? Art mad?”

      “No; I am not mad. 'Tis you that were mad to open your purse before him.”

      The mystery seemed to thicken, and Denys, wearied of stirring up the mud by questions, held his peace to see if it would not clear of itself. Then the girl, finding herself no longer questioned, seemed to go through some internal combat. At last she said, doggedly and aloud, “I will. The Virgin give me courage? What matters it if they kill me, since he is dead? Soldier, the landlord is out.”

      “Oh, is he?”

      “What, do landlords leave their taverns at this time of night? also see what a tempest! We are sheltered here, but t'other side it blows a hurricane.”

      Denys said nothing.

      “He is gone to fetch the band.”

      “The band! what band?”

      “Those who will cut your throat and take your gold. Wretched man; to go and shake gold in an innkeeper's face!”

      The blow came so unexpectedly it staggered even Denys, accustomed as he was to sudden perils. He muttered a single word, but in it a volume.

      “Gerard!”

      “Gerard! What is that? Oh, 'tis thy comrade's name, poor lad. Get him out quick ere they come; and fly to the next town.”

      “And thou?”

      “They will kill me.”

      “That shall they not. Fly with us.”

      “'Twill avail me nought: one of the band will be sent to kill me. They are sworn to slay all who betray them.”

      “I'll take thee to my native place full thirty leagues from hence, and put thee under my own mother's wing, ere they shall hurt a hair o' thy head. But first Gerard. Stay thou here whilst I fetch him!”

      As he was darting off, the girl seized him convulsively, and with all the iron strength excitement lends to women. “Stay me not! for pity's sake,” he cried; “'tis life or death.”

      “Sh!—sh!” whispered the girl, shutting his mouth hard with her hand, and putting her pale lips close to him, and her eyes, that seemed to turn backwards, straining towards some indistinct sound.

      He listened.

      He heard footsteps, many footsteps, and no voices. She whispered in his ear, “They are come.” And trembled like a leaf.

      Denys felt it was so. Travellers in that number would never have come in dead silence.

      The feet were now at the very door.

      “How many?” said he, in a hollow whisper.

      “Hush!” and she put her mouth to his very ear. And who, that had seen this man and woman in that attitude, would have guessed what freezing hearts were theirs, and what terrible whispers passed between them?

      “How armed?”

      “Sword and dagger: and the giant with his axe. They call him the Abbot.”

      “And my comrade?”

      “Nothing can save him. Better lose one life than two. Fly!”

      Denys's blood froze at this cynical advice. “Poor creature, you know not a soldier's heart.”

      He put his head in his hands a moment, and a hundred thoughts of dangers baffled whirled through his brain.

      “Listen, girl! There is one chance for our lives, if thou wilt but be true to us. Run to the town; to the nearest tavern, and tell the first soldier there, that a soldier here is sore beset, but armed, and his life to be saved if they will but run. Then to the bailiff. But first to the soldiers. Nay, not a word, but buss me, good lass, and fly! men's lives hang on thy heels.”

      She kilted up her gown to run. He came round to the road with her, saw her cross the road cringing with fear, then glide away, then turn into an erect shadow, then melt away in the storm.

      And now he must get to Gerard. But how? He had to run the gauntlet of the whole band. He asked himself, what was the worst thing they could do? for he had learned in war that an enemy does, not what you hope he will do, but what you hope he will not do. “Attack me as I enter the kitchen! Then I must not give them time.”

      Just as he drew near to the latch, a terrible thought crossed him. “Suppose they had already dealt with Gerard. Why, then,” thought he, “nought is left but to kill, and be killed;” and he strung his bow, and walked rapidly into the kitchen. There were seven hideous faces seated round the fire, and the landlord pouring them out neat brandy, blood's forerunner in every age.

      “What? company!” cried Denys gaily; “one minute, my lads, and I'll be with you;” and he snatched up a lighted candle off the table, opened the door that led to the staircase, and went up it hallooing. “What, Gerard! whither hast thou skulked to?” There was no answer. He hallooed louder, “Gerard, where art thou?”

      After a moment, in which Denys lived an hour of agony, a peevish, half-inarticulate noise issued from the room at the head of the little stairs. Denys burst in, and there was Gerard asleep.

      “Thank God!” he said, in a choking voice, then began to sing loud, untuneful ditties. Gerard put his fingers into his ears; but presently he saw in Denys's face a horror that contrasted strangely with this sudden merriment.

      “What ails thee?” said he, sitting up and staring.

      “Hush!” said Denys, and his hand spoke even more plainly than his lips. “Listen to me.”

      Denys then pointing significantly to the door, to show Gerard sharp ears were listening hard by, continued his song aloud but under cover of it threw in short muttered syllables.

      “(Our lives are in peril.)

      “(Thieves.)

      “(Thy doublet.)

      “(Thy sword.)

      “Aid.

      “Coming.

      “Put off time.” Then aloud—

      “Well, now, wilt have t'other bottle?—Say nay.”

      “No, not I.”

      “But I tell thee, there are half-a-dozen jolly fellows. Tired.”

      “Ay, but I am too wearied,” said Gerard. “Go thou.”

      “Nay, nay!” Then he went to the door and called out cheerfully “Landlord, the young milksop will not rise. Give those honest fellows t'other bottle. I will pay for't in the morning.”

      He heard a brutal and fierce chuckle.

      Having thus by observation made sure the kitchen door was shut, and the miscreants were not actually listening, he examined the chamber door closely: then quietly shut it, but did not bolt it; and went and inspected the window.

      It was too small to get out of, and yet a thick bar of iron had been let in the stone to make it smaller; and just as he made this chilling discovery, the outer door of the house was bolted with a loud clang.

      Denys groaned. “The beasts are in the shambles.”

      But would