The Plowshare and the Sword: A Tale of Old Quebec
CHAPTER XI.
THE SWORD IMBRUED
While the pendulum of a clock might have swayed thrice, the fourventurers stood facing Onawa as though her words had turned them intostone. Then Hough, forgetting all save rage and lust for vengeance,broke forward to reach the traitress. Instantly she ran for the bush,and the voice of Penfold called his follower back.
"Lift not your hand against a woman," he cried. "To the forest, mylads."
"To the forest an you will," Hough shouted. "I at least shall advanceto smite this woman's partner in sin, be he Frenchman or devil."
"Be it so, neighbour," his captain answered. "Together let us stand,or together fall. Advance, then, and take the place by storm."
As they rushed out, La Salle braced himself to face the odds. He madea few passes to free his arm, and trod the beaten ground to make surethat it would not yield. Then, loosening the top bar, he flung itforth as the spidery form of Hough descended, and it struck before thePuritan's feet and stopped him dead. The same moment La Salle sprangupon the lowest bar, but the support weighed down beneath its burden,and his blade merely stabbed the air.
"A priest, neighbours," Hough shouted. "Now to avenge our martyrsburnt at Smithfield by Bloody Mary and the Pope."
Onawa, standing forgotten at the edge of the bush, cast around her asearching glance. The encampment of her tribe was far distant. Thehound had gone out howling. Danger from that quarter was yet to come.She stood in shadow, the moonlight whitening the sand in front anddarkening the shapes which hurried to regain their own. No eyes wereupon her. She raised her left hand to her right shoulder and with thesame ominous motion dropped upon one knee, falling unconsciously intothe pose of a goddess of the chase.
The attackers hesitated, knowing the reputation of the man with whomthey had to deal. To attempt to scale the palisade at that point meantcertain loss, and they were not strong enough to take the risk. Huntedand hunters glared at each other over the pine bars. "Get you round,Jesse," whispered Penfold. "The dog is bold because he knows his backis safe."
Woodfield ran beneath the palisading to a place known to him, where hemight scale the fence and so take the priest from behind.
La Salle detected the ruse and taunted his baiters in native French,while his keen eyes sought an opportunity to strike. He bentcautiously and gathered a handful of sand. Hough sprang upon the bars,and for the first time swords were clashed; for the first time also thePuritan realised the power of the priest's wrist. The point escapedhis forearm by a mere margin, and La Salle laughed contemptuously.
"Brave Lutherans!" he cried. "Four soldiers against a priest.Advance, soldiers. The point a trifle higher. The elbow close to theside. Now you stand too near together."
"Wait until friend Woodfield comes up," muttered Flower. "Then heshall laugh his last."
As he spoke there came a sound through the moonbeams, as it were thevibrating of the wings of a humming-bird, and to the music of thisdisturbance Flower flung up his arms with a choking cough and closedhis sentence with a gasp of pain. His sword darted to the ground. Heswayed to and fro, his eyes wild, his mouth open in a useless endeavourto appeal to his comrades, and then plunged down, like a man divinginto the water to swim, and sprawled at their feet, with a rough shafttopped by a crow's feather springing from his back.
A cloud of sand stung the faces of the survivors, and before they couldrecover their eyesight, or awaken to the knowledge of Woodfield'sapproaching shout, La Salle was across the bars and bearing down uponthem, his cold face branded with its mocking smile. He dashed theiropposition aside, and turned, flushed with success, to renew thestruggle, the taunts still ringing from his tongue.
But help was near at hand. Before the maddened and half stupefiedEnglishmen were able to move the night again resounded. Blood hadscented the foe and could no longer be restrained. The priest wheeledround when he heard those howls, and escaped into the shadows withPenfold and Woodfield at his heels.
There was indeed one man, and he the most vengeful of his enemies, whomight have outstripped the priest, but it so happened that thelong-striding Puritan had lost his reason. Obeying the first impulse,he pursued the traitress, mad to avenge the good yeoman who wasstretched to his long sleep at the entrance to New Windsor. Nor did herealise his mistake until the shadow, after mocking him for a longmile, flitted into the unknown depths of the bush, and so disappeared.
"Fear not, masters," called young Richard, as boy and dog passed,running as freshly as at the start. "Do but show my father which way Ihave gone. Blood shall hunt the Frenchman down, and I shall slay him.I shall slay him, friends."
They swept on, flinging the dew across the bars of moonshine. Thattriumphant voice came back to the two men as they slackened speed forlack of breath: "I shall slay the Frenchman. I shall slay him,friends."
Penfold sank upon a bed of moss and panted into his hands. Woodfieldstood near, his breath coming in white steam, his breast rising andfalling.
"It is God's way, neighbour," he said gently.
The old leader's voice came in a sobbing whisper:
"Through the device of the devil, smitten down foully.... A man of fewwords, a good soul, with a smile for all. I knew him as a boy at home,a gentle boy, who would never join in stoning birds in the hedgerow orin killing butterflies, because, quoth he, God made them to give ussong and happiness. And yet none quicker than he at ball or quintain,none braver at quarterstaff. Twice won he the silver arrow in HolbornFields, and at home would lead his mother to church a' Sundays, and a'week-day drive the horses out to field. A sober lad as ever sang withthe lark beside our Thames.... An arrow in the back, an arrow shot byan Indian witch. It passes all. Call you that God's way? God wills aman to die in fair fight, with his death in front. And this! Oh,George! To fall like a beast hunted for the pot."
"Yet 'twas a soldier's end."
"Tell them not at home," cried Penfold. "Let them not know, if ever wesee Thames-side again, how George Flower fell. Ay, like a flower hecame up, and as a grass has he been mown down. Many are the wiles ofSatan. The arrow that flieth by night, the coward arrow of treachery.'Tis a foul wind that blows out a good man's life. He was a good man.His old mother, if yet she live, may look upon his past and smile.Such as George has made our England live. The strong oaks of the land.From treachery and sudden death, good Lord deliver us!"
"Amen, captain!"
"Where is friend Hough?" asked the old man sharply, rising and gropinglike one awakened from sleep.
"I saw him rushing into the forest as a man possessed."
"His zeal consumes him. I fear me while the madness last he willthrust his sword through that witch and so bring us to trouble with theIndians."
"She will escape from him in the forest."
"Bear with me," said Penfold brokenly. "To-night I am old. My legpains me so that I may hardly rest upon it. What is here? See! Whomhave we yonder?"
The man of Kent came striding through, with the hot question: "Hastseen my son?"
As shortly Woodfield answered, and the knight hurried on without a wordalong the dim trail where the pursued and the pursuers had passed.
"I am but a useless hulk this night," groaned Penfold. "Do you followand bring me word, while I stay to keep company with our George."
So Woodfield went. It was but a parting for the hour. He withdrewhimself from his tough old captain and fellow villager, without a graspof the hand, with no word of farewell, nor even a kindly look at therugged features that he loved, never dreaming that he and Simon Penfoldwould speak again no more.
The knight, more skilled in woodcraft, proceeded faster than theyeoman. The clash of steel reached his ears against the wind, the wildbayings of a dog, and deep French accents mingled with shrillcounter-blasts in an English tongue. The shuddering forest becamehideous, and the moonbeams came to his eyes red between the branches.
Man La Salle feared not at all, but the fangs and glowing eyes of theh
ound appalled. Any moment the brute might spring upon his back. Hecould not hope to escape from hunters who covered the ground with thespeed of deer and might not be thrown off the scent. He stopped,breathing furiously, and set his back against a smooth trunk; but whenhis foes swept up, and he beheld the size and innocence of thesword-bearer, he laughed, even as Goliath laughed when young David cameout against him armed with a sling and a few smooth pebbles from thebrook.
"By the five wounds of God, 'tis but a child!" he muttered, as hisbreath returned. "May it never be said that La Salle ran in fear froma baby and a dog."
He smiled with compassion for the white face which became visible whena bar of light crossed it. "I will deal lightly with the child," hesaid, "but the dog must die, or he shall hunt me through the night."
"Down, Blood!" called the young voice; and the brute crouched like atiger, sweeping the grass madly with his tail.
"He bears himself like a veteran," muttered La Salle, with a braveman's admiration for courage. "The pity that he is so young!"
"On guard, sir!" shouted Richard, stepping up with the challenge whichhis father had taught him.
"Back, little one," said the priest in his own tongue. "Put up yoursword until you become a man, and return to your fishing-lines, and beyoung while you may."
The boy could not understand one word of the hated language. Savinghis breath, he replied by springing forward, to cross swords with hisrenowned antagonist as confidently as on the former memorable night hehad faced his father. A few passes, a turn or so, a quick lunge overthe guard, a rapid bout of skirmishing high upon the breast, and theastonished Frenchman became assured that his youthful opponent was aswordsman almost worthy of his steel.
"By St. Denis!" he muttered, playing his sword from side to side withhis inimitable sureness. "What wonder is this! Are these Englishmensoldiers from their cradle? A doughty stripling! He fences like amaitre d'armes."
But time was passing, others were upon his track, and, though La Sallewas willing to spare, he knew that he was compelled to strike.
He stepped forward, closed with his antagonist, and by a deft turn ofhis iron wrist caught the boy's sword at the hilt and wrested it fromhis hand. Then he raised his point and lightly pricked the nearshoulder.
"Go in peace, my son," he said in English.
That contemptuous manner, naturally assumed before inferior andsuperior alike, stung young Richard to the soul. He ran for his sword,while Blood sprang up with a deep challenge, and plunged after LaSalle, who again had taken to flight. Richard followed at full speed,his blood boiling to avenge the insult to his knighthood.
"They come," said La Salle resignedly. "He must have the coup degrace. Now God have mercy upon his infant soul."
He came in his flight to a natural opening, one half in deep shadow,the other lit by the sparkling moon and carpeted by short grass.Columnar trees stood at regular intervals around this garden in theforest. A few night lilies opened their sulphur cups. The place mighthave been a dancing-ring for elves, and the priest crossed himself whenhe stopped, looked round, and swiftly wiped his sword.
"The turf like a rich cloth," he murmured. "The trees falling back,the moon soft yet sufficient. An ideal spot for sword-play. Butmethinks somewhat weird."
The peace of the glade was broken in a moment. Blood dashed out, hisfangs bared, and made two fierce bounds over the turf. La Salle fixedhis eye upon a white spot in the underpart of the flying body, and atprecisely the critical moment stepped aside, catching the hound uponhis point and running him through from the centre of the white patch tothe stiff hackles of his back. He turned sharply, lest his swordshould break, and the dying body passed swiftly from his blade andcrashed into the bush.
"When killing is too easy it carries the mask of murder," the priestmuttered.
He turned again, for Richard was upon him with a sob of rage, andshouting: "Devil! You shall die for killing my dog, devil that youare!"
Aware that his time was short, La Salle parried the boy's wild lungesand replied by his own calculated attack. In that supreme moment ofhis life Richard fought, even as his father might have done, withstrength, accuracy, and cunning manoeuvre. The swords played togetherfor little longer than a minute, and then came the _passe en tierce_outside the guard, which put an end to the unequal fight and left abody bleeding upon the grass.
A cry came from the forest, a near reassuring cry:
"Hold him out, Richard. On the defensive. Do not attack. Rememberthe pass I taught you."
The priest's eyes dimmed. Hastily he arranged the warm body, closedthe eyes, straightened the legs and folded the stubborn arms, mutteringa prayer the while.
"Heretic though you are, our Lady of Mercy may yet plead for you," hesaid; but his words were inaudible to his own ears, because of theshout which rang behind his shoulders:
"Hold him off, Richard. I am with you. Keep your eyes upon his point.I am here."
As the bush gave before the avenger of blood, La Salle ran swiftly fromthat spot. And all the forest seemed to be moaning for the child thuscut down before he was grown, and the winds off Couchicing sobbed abovethe hemlocks, and the moon sank down as cold as snow, drawing thepurple shadow closer to that white face and the straight, stiff limbs.