The Doomsman

  XXI

  OXENFORD'S DAUGHTER

  Constans had now spent nearly a fortnight in the valley of theSwiftwater, and, while he had been hospitably received and entertained,he made but small progress in his mission; it seemed as though thissecond propaganda were also doomed to failure. There was neitherunanimity nor enthusiasm among these rustic seigneurs; they were contentto leave well enough alone, and the rest of the world could shift foritself, as in the past.

  "Doom will not trouble us, and why should we concern ourselves about theflaying of a few fat burghers. Mayhap a little blood-letting now andthen is efficacious in warding off the falling sickness, and in the endthe churls get it back out of us. Your own worthy uncle, Messer Hugolin,has squeezed me more than once. As for your ideal republic, stuff ofdreams, lad! Take an old man's word for it."

  Piers Major, of the River Barony, spoke decidedly, yet withal notunkindly, for he had been blood-brother to Constans's father, and heliked the boy for his own sake. Constans had gone; to him last of all;unconsciously he had been counting upon his support, whatever elsefailed, and to be repulsed in this quarter was bitter indeed. The oldman looked into the clouded face before him and continued, earnestly:

  "A dream, I tell you. Let the morning wind scatter these vapors; you areyoung, and the world is before you. Harkee, lad, for I speak for yourown good--nothing less. There is the Greenwood Keep, and it stillremains 'no man's land.' True, the house was badly gutted by the fire,but there is plenty of good timber in the forest, and every man among uswill be glad to lend a hand to the reconstruction of your fortunes.Finally, there is your tall cousin Alexa, 'Red' Oxenford's daughter.Methinks she looks upon you not unkindly, and she bade me be sure tobring you to her coming of age to-day. The whole country-side will bepresent, and you may bag all your birds with one fairly shot bolt. Whatsay you?"

  Constans was silent; for the moment he was conscious of being allured byan offer so well and kindly meant. To restore the old home, to findhimself again among his kinsmen and friends, contentedly sharing theirsimple, wholesome life, to plough his own acres and see the smokecurling upward from his own hearthstone--were not these things, afterall, the actualities of life?--was he to be always turning his back uponthem to grasp at clouds mirrored in running water, shadows that evereluded his grasp? His cousin Alexa--undoubtedly she was a pretty girl,with her rose-leaf complexion and bright, gray eyes. He had met her ontwo or three occasions, and he was not wholly unaware of her shypleasure in his companionship, impersonal as it had hitherto been. Hemight, indeed, stop and consider.

  Yet the temptation passed as quickly as it had presented itself. Therewas that other work in the world to-day, and who was to take it up if hedrew back? Others might be of gifts more competent, but at least he hadcome to know himself through hard experience, and knowledge so boughtwas not to be lightly flung away.

  "It cannot be," he said, shortly. "Believe me, that I am not ungrateful,but my own way is plain, and I must take it." He hesitated. "You are ofmy father's covenant," he continued, slowly.

  "The blood-bond is between us," assented the other, heartily enough, andyet knitting his brows as he spoke.

  "Then if I choose to exact the full obligation of brotherhood, even tosword-service----"

  "It must be paid, and it shall be," said Piers Major, quickly, and stillhis countenance was troubled.

  Constans deliberated. "I shall not require so severe a test of your goodfaith," he said at length. "Yet I may ask you to hold the question open,to give me a chance to prove that my plans are feasible and that actionis necessary for the future peace of all."

  "That I can agree to with all my heart. But, mind you, the argument musthave a keen edge and weight behind it. We Stockaders are a stubborngeneration."

  "So, too, are facts," returned Constans, "and possibly you may have todeal with them rather than with my theories. It is a long time since themen in gray have needed to go afield in this direction, but the countryaround Croye is a dry sponge, and I happen to know that there were moreempty saddles than full hands in the expedition that has just returnedto Doom from the Southland. I stood on Harbor Hill last night, and therewere lights in the Narrows."

  "It may be so," said the old man, sombrely, "but the graybacks shouldnot have forgotten already the lesson we taught them at the Golden Covethe year of the red comet. But, Constans, lad, we should be on our wayif we would not have the pretty Alexa furrowing her forehead over ourempty seats at her birthday board. Hola! Willem; the horses!"

  The way to Deepdene, Red Oxenford's stronghold, led through the forest,and the green drive was a pleasant place on this brightest of Maymornings, there being the languor of coming summer in the fitful breeze.The two horsemen rode slowly, yet their speech was brief, each beingabsorbed in his own thoughts and questionings.

  A couple of miles farther on and they came to the crossing of the Ochrebrook. As they rode their horses into the ford, a wild dog that had beenlapping at the brink started up with a snarl under the very feet ofPiers Major's steed. Now such is the cowardly nature of the wood-dogthat he will run from the presence of man if chance of escape beoffered; yet if cornered he will show all the ferocity of a woundedboar. In this instance the dog could not retreat to advantage, and so hesprang at the horse, gripping the tender muzzle in his strong, sharpteeth, and hanging there like a rat on a terrier. The horse, maddenedwith pain, plunged and reared. His master drew his hunting-knife andmade an ineffectual pass at the ugly beast.

  "Hold!" shouted Constans. "Back in your saddle and leave him to me."

  The pistol in his hand spoke once, and the dog, shot through the lungs,fell back into the water. A bubble of crimson foam floated for a momenton the current, and he was gone.

  "That was well done," said Piers Major, gravely. He had finallysucceeded in quieting his horse, and they were again on their way.

  "It is one of the ancient secrets," said Constans, and explained as besthe could the mechanism of the revolver and the composition of itsexplosive cartridge. The old man examined the strange weapon withrespectful attention; he had had proof of its powers.

  "Have you ever killed a man?" he demanded.

  Constans was obliged to answer in the negative, and the other seemed alittle doubtful. "Look," said Constans, and, drawing rein, he took aimat a beech-tree a few yards distant. The bullet ploughed into the wood,leaving a small, round hole in the smooth bark. "See how deeply it haspenetrated," he continued. "Think you that a man could endure to havethis lump of lead drilled through heart or brain? Ay, and against it nocuirass of quilted cloth will avail, however well it may turn anarrow-point."

  Piers Major smiled grimly. "If I questioned your assertion," he said,"you would doubtless invite me to stand up and put the matter to theproof. I am content."

  "In a secret place, some three miles from here," went on Constans, "Ihave in store a dozen similar weapons, together with as many of a largerpattern--rifles as they were anciently called. Also abundance ofammunition. Put them in the hands of brave men, and would not the oddsbe in our favor, even if the Doomsmen out-numbered us?"

  "Yet may not our enemies provide themselves with the same means ofoffence?"

  "No," said Constans, decidedly. "It took me a month's hard work to getwhat I have into serviceable condition. Besides, the weapons are uselesswithout the cartridges of gunpowder and lead. Of these only a smallquantity remained fit for use, and I have secured it all."

  The old man's eye brightened. "Good," he said, laconically, and relapsedinto his abstracted mood.

  * * * * *

  It was a joyous and inspiring spectacle that presented itself when theyfinally drew rein before the doors of Deepdene. On the smooth lawnwithin the stockade full a hundred horses were picketed, while theirmasters strolled about in the bright sunshine. For the most part theywere well-built young fellows, clad in all the bravery of a rusticholiday. Constans and his companion paused only long enough to receivethe salutation of those nearest, and then pas
sed into the house to paytheir respects to the host. They had been among the last of the gueststo arrive, and now the signal was given for the festivities of the dayto begin in earnest.

  The sports were of the sort characteristic of such agathering--wrestling and foot-races, target-shooting and bouts atcudgel-play and night-stick. Towards the middle of the afternoon, whenthe athletic prowess of the young men had been fully exploited, came thegreat spectacle, the bull-fight, and of this it will be necessary tospeak somewhat particularly.

  The pen, or corral, as it might more properly be called, was a circularenclosure of fifty yards in diameter, the ring being formed of stoutpost-and-rail fence. The victim, a wild bull, was first turnedblindfolded into the enclosure and baited by the dogs until excited tofrenzy. Then half a dozen of the bolder youths would vault into the ringarmed only with their throwing-knives, and the real sport would begin.The master of the ring, having provided himself with a long pole towhich a sharp knife-blade had been bound, would watch his opportunity tocut the thong that secured the blind-cloth about the animal's eyes. Woenow to him who was dull of eye or laggard of foot!

  The object of the game was, of course, to strike the fatal blow; but,skilled as were the young Stockaders in the art of throwing the knife,it often happened that a bull would be bleeding from a hundred woundsand still keep his feet. Commonly, too, he would manage to score uponone or more of his adversaries before succumbing, for while it waspermissible for a contestant to leave the ring, he could only do soafter he had thrown his knife and as a last resort against the bull'scharge. When the animal's attention had been diverted by an attack fromanother quarter, the disarmed contestant would vault again into the ringand recover his weapon. Here, indeed, was a game that might well stirthe coldest blood, since life itself was the stake for which it wasplayed.

  The company had gathered about the bull-pen, pressing closely againstthe barrier, that they might lose no part of the show. It should be aspectacle worth more than ordinary attention, for the bull was an animalof exceptional size and of a temper to correspond; the knowing onesopined that the contest would be a protracted one, and expatiatedgravely upon the animal's strong points to their less-informed brethren.Wagers were being booked; there were endless arguments, asseverations,questionings; the smoke from innumerable pipes hung like a blue hazeabove the heads of the throng, and here and there a fretful child liftedup complaining voice. Already the sun hung in the zenith, and it wastime to begin if the sport were not to encroach upon the dinner hour.

  At the north end of the enclosure a wooden gallery had been reared forthe accommodation of the principal guests, and Constans, to hissurprise, found himself included in this privileged number. Possibly thepretty Alexa could have explained the mystery of his invitation; certainit is that she favored him with a radiant smile when he made hisappearance on the platform, a mark of encouragement which might havejustified him in appropriating the vacant seat at the maiden's righthand. But Constans, being of a retiring disposition, and even a littleindifferent to his opportunities, let the chance slip, and another whohad been waiting anxiously upon the lady's nod was finally made happy.

  A murmur of applause had greeted the entrance of the bull, and truly hewas a magnificent creature, deep chested and of the true checkeredmarking in black and white. The customary baiting had been omitted, forthe ugliness of his temper needed no external stimulus, and the youngmen were already in the ring when he appeared.

  The preliminary encounter was a mortifying experience for the sextet ofoverconfident youth. One by one they launched their weapons and eithermissed outright or else scored but lightly; successively they had beenforced to retreat beyond the barrier by the animal, whose agility ingetting around the ring was marvellous. Unfortunately for thecontestants, all the knives had fallen on virtually the same spot, andthe bull proceeded to mount guard over them as though aware that theirpossession was the guarantee of his own immunity. The game was nowindefinitely blocked, since it was certain death for a player to attemptthe recovery of his throwing-knife, and the rules did not permit thesubstitution of fresh weapons. The crowd laughed ironically as thesituation dawned upon them, and the discomfited players were compelledto submit to many a gibe. The bull remained master of the field, and thespectators, grown tired of waiting, began to express their disapprovalaudibly.

  Piers Major pushed his way to Constans's side. "A chance for you andyour fire-stick," he whispered. "I have been talking to Red Oxenford andthe others about it, and they are curious to see for themselves. Thinkyou that you can drop that fellow where he stands?" and he nodded at thebull, who still kept watch over his spoils.

  "Yes," answered Constans, confidently. Here was the supreme moment atlast arrived; the very thought of failure was impossible; he must andwould succeed in the task imposed. Obeying the beckoning finger of hishost, Constans advanced to the edge of the platform overhanging theenclosure.

  An excited murmur rose from the crowd below, and even the dignitariesupon the gallery jostled one another to obtain a favorablevantage-point. Alexa stood immediately behind Constans, her eyes brightwith excitement, and her slim hand hidden in her father's huge fist.Without attempting to take aim, Constans raised the revolver and fired.

  The bullet struck the ground in front of the bull and threw up aspiteful puff of dust, at which the animal pawed disdainfully. But ifthe shot had missed its mark, the report of the explosion did fullexecution among the spectators. The women shrieked, and the men nearestthe enclosure pushed back hastily among the crowd. For a moment a panicwas imminent, but Constans quieted it with a word.

  "It is only the bark of the dog," he said, smilingly, and his hearerssomewhat shamefacedly resumed their places, but this time leaving a dearspace in which he might stand and handle his weapon.

  Constans took steady aim, and, to his surprise, missed again, the bulletflying wide. The failure nettled him. He made his preparations for thethird essay with care, raising and lowering the pistol several times,until he was sure that he could not miss the mark. A third failure--thebullet clipping a splinter from a fence-post on the opposite side of thering. A mist rose before Constans's eyes; what did it mean? Could hehave deceived himself in thinking that he had mastered this secret ofthe ancients? Was it to fail him now, when all depended upon success?His hand trembled so that he could hardly draw the trigger. The hammerfell for the fourth time, but no explosion followed, the cartridgehaving missed fire. He had now but one shot left, and the whispers ofdisapproval and disappointment among the crowd were plainly audible.

  Without stopping to reflect, Constans leaped over the rail of thegallery to the arena below. As he jumped, the girl, Alexa, started, anda cry escaped her parted lips; it was a sigh rather than an exclamation,the voice of a crushed flower suspiring its last vital breath. AndConstans did not hear.

  For perhaps half a dozen seconds man and beast stood motionless, waitingupon each other. The bull tossed his head savagely, his tail twitching,and a cloud of dust and gravel rising under his impatient hoof.Constans, with finger on trigger, moved a step to the right so as toface him fairly. Suddenly the great horns came down with a vindictivesweep, the shoulders heaved in the first impulse of the coming charge.Like the snap of a whip the report rang out clean and sharp, and thebullet went home at just the one vulnerable point in the thickskull--that at which the butcher aims his pole-axe. The bull pulled upshort, the glaring eyes softened as though in wonder at this strangeperformance that had been enacted before him; then, as the people stillheld their breath, the brute sank quietly to his knees and rolled overdead.

  A woman started in to laugh hysterically, but her voice was drowned in amighty shout; like a wave the crowd passed over the barrier, andConstans grasped helplessly at half a hundred out-stretched hands. Ababel of voices arose; the arena, filled to overflowing with excited menand women, was comparable only to some gigantic ant-hill.

  Fifty yards outside of the main palisade stood an oak-tree. Under theStockader law no standing timber should have been
permitted at a lessdistance than one hundred paces, but the oak was such a fine specimenthat Red Oxenford had allowed it to remain--a fatal error.

  A bowstring twanged; the arrow sped to its mark--the fair young breastof Oxenford's daughter--and in her father's arms the maiden gasped anddied; all this in the space of time in which a cloud of the bigness of aman's hand might pass across the sun. Down from the lower branches ofthat accursed oak dropped the lithe figure of a man garbed all in gray."Stop him!" called a weak, uncertain voice, but no one moved. The man ingray waved his hand derisively and disappeared into the bush. Aninarticulate sound arose from the closely packed throng in theenclosure, the exhalation of a universal sigh.

  Red Oxenford had made neither sound nor sign. He stood motionless, hisdaughter's head cradled in the hollow of his arm; he stared stupidly atthe girl's face, so pitifully white and small it seemed, with itsvirginal coronal of flaxen hair--then he fell in a heap, like to acollapsing wall.

  Piers Major gently withdrew the bolt from the wound and held it up toview. Its message was plain to all, for none save the Doomsmen featheredtheir arrows with the plume of the gray goose. Only now the quills werestained to a darker hue.

  "It is her blood," he said, and the shaft of polished hickory snappedlike a straw between his fingers. "Her blood! and of Doom shall werequire it." And at that all the people shouted and then stood withuncovered heads, while the young men bore away the body of Oxenford'sdaughter on their locked shields and gave it to her mother.

  "OF DOOM SHALL WE REQUIRE IT"]

  That night Constans rode out from Deepdene at the head of twenty pickedmen, leading them to the secret place where he had stored the guns andammunition which he had brought from Doom. Two days of practice with theunfamiliar weapons, and on the morning of the third the little squad,reinforced by a company of two hundred men-at-arms, set out upon thenorthern road.

  Towards noon they passed through Croye. It had been their intention tostop here for the mid-day meal, but none cared to propose a halt afterentering this strange city of silence. Ordinarily the central squarewould have been filled with a voluble, chaffering crowd, it being amarket-day; now there was not a living thing to be seen, not even a hogwallowing in the kennel nor a buzzard about the butcher-stalls. Yetthere were no traces of fire and sword, the houses had suffered noviolence, and stood there barred and shuttered as though it were stillthe middle watch of the night.

  "What think you?" said Piers Major to Constans. "Is it the plague?"

  "No, or there would be fires burning in the streets and yellow crosseschalked upon the door-lintels. Those who keep so close behind theirbolts and bars are living people, hale and strong as ourselves. But,assuredly, some great fear has been put upon them. Perhaps we shall knowmore as we go on."

  The answer to the riddle was given as they turned the corner by MesserHugolin's house. The strong-room on the ground-floor stood empty anddespoiled of its treasures, yet the gold and silver had not been carriedaway, but lay scattered about in the filth of the street, as thoughutterly contemned by the marauders.

  And there, hanging from a cross-bar of the broken window, was the bodyof Messer Hugolin, Councillor Primus of Croye, dressed in his scarletrobes of office, and with a great gold chain about his neck. His headwas bowed upon his breast, so that the face was not visible, and forthis indulgence Constans gave inward thanks.

  "Ride on," commanded Piers Major, shortly, and the cavalcade clatteredforward. It is not worth while to linger where once Dom Gillian'stax-gatherers have passed.