Sir Ludar

  CHAPTER FOUR.

  HOW I MET A RUNAWAY SCHOLAR.

  As I entered the poor kitchen of the inn--for it was a sorry shedaltogether--there rose to meet me a figure which, if I live toMethuselah's age, I shall not easily forget. He was tall and had thelimbs of a giant. His hair was tawny and inclined to red, and hung indisorderly waves on his shoulders. His raiment--for he had flung hisscholar's cap and robe to a corner of the room--was poor and ragged, andseemed scarcely to hang together on his brawny back. His arms were longand nervous, and the hands at the end of them twitched uneasily evenwhile the rest of his body was motionless. His carriage was erect andmartial, and you knew not whether to admire most the weight and solidityof the man as he stood still, or the tiger-like spring in every limbwhen he moved.

  Yet it was not one of these things which made me stand almost in awe asI saw him. It was his face, which, if ever a man's face deserved thename, was beautiful. I cannot explain why; for I have seen featuresmore finely carved and better proportioned in faces which never seemedto me so beautiful as his. I have seen more strength of mouth, morelight of eyes, many a time, and yet never looked twice; I have seenfaces as noble which never struck me as his did. I know not how it was.I think it was the expression which moulded all his face into a look,partly wild, partly noble, partly sad, and wholly gentle. For as youwatched it, it changed like an April day from cloud to fair, fromthunder to lightning, from night to day; yet whatever came or went, thelook of a gentle man remained.

  Man, did I say? He was scarcely my senior, even if he was my equal inyears; and his beardless chin and the boyish glow on his cheek made himseem younger than he was.

  But why all this picture-drawing of a stray Oxford student, whom, whileI talk about him, I keep standing in front of me on the floor of thatpoor kitchen? You shall hear.

  It was not to do me obeisance that he rose as I entered. His dirk wasdrawn and his face was thunderous as he took a step forward and spoke.

  "I want you not! So leave me."

  My Lord Burleigh himself could not have spoken the words more royally,although he would have spoken them with less music and more of anEnglish accent in his voice.

  Now, moved as I was by the look of my companion, it offended me to heara loyal London 'prentice talked to thus like a dog, or, worse, like thedrawer of the inn.

  "By your leave," said I, and it was not often I said as much to any man,"unless you be the landlord of the place, I have as good a right to behere as you."

  "Then," said he, solemnly and, as I thought, sadly, "guard yourself." Iwhipped out my sword. In my boastfulness, I thought I had too great anadvantage with my long weapon against his short and not too highly-tempered blade, and I resolved with myself not to run him through if Icould otherwise satisfy him. But my tune changed as soon as we closed.I could do nothing. My fine thrusts and parries wherewith I was wont toset Finsbury Fields a-gaping all went for nothing. He got in at me overmy guard, under my guard, beside my guard, and through my guard. Norcould I even do myself justice. For while I fenced, I was fascinated bythe flashing of his eyes and the noble gracefulness of his every motion.In two minutes he had me disarmed, pinned up against the wall, ashelpless as a silly ox in the grip of a tiger.

  It mortified me as much as anything to find that when he had me thus athis mercy he dropped me half disdainfully, half pitifully, and put hisdirk back into its sheath.

  "Will you go now?"

  "No," said I, doggedly. For so chapfallen was I that I wished nothingbetter than that he should do his worst with me.

  At that he looked at me in solemn perplexity, and I expected to see hishand back at his girdle. But, to my confusion, he only shrugged hisshoulders and turned away.

  This completed my humbling; for no man had ever disdained me thusbefore. I might easily have reached my sword, which lay at my feet, andrun him through before he could face round; yet he did not even deign tonotice me, and walked slowly to the fire, where he sat with his back tome.

  I could stand it no longer, and crossed the room to face him.

  "You have beaten me," said I--and the words were hard to say--"take mysword, for, by heaven, I will never wear it again, and fare you well."

  The cloud on his face broke into sunlight as he sprang to his feet, and,taking my arm, said--

  "No. Stay here and let us be friends. I am too poor to offer theesupper, but here's my hand."

  I took his hand like one in a dream. I could not help it, strange as itseemed.

  "Sir," said I, "whoever you be, I strike hands on one condition only,that is, that you sup to-night with me. I'm a London 'prentice, but Iknow when I meet my match."

  What that had to do with his supping with me, I know not; but I was soflurried with my late defeat and my enemy's sudden friendliness, that Iscarcely knew what I said.

  "If that be the price, I must even pay it," said he, solemnly, "so longas we be friends."

  So I called to the man of the house to bring us food quickly, and, whileit was coming, set myself to know more of my new comrade.

  Yet when I came to question him I felt abashed. For he looked so graveand noble that, despite his ragged clothes, it seemed presumptuous toask him who he was. While I doubted how to begin, he spared me thetrouble.

  "Are you going to Oxford?" said he.

  "I am," said I. "I was to reach there this night, but lost my way; andeven yet do not know how near I am."

  "Not an hour from the cursed place," said he, giving his student's cap,which lay on the floor at his feet, a little kick.

  "Then it agrees not with you?" said I.

  "Agrees!" said he, and then dropped silent, far more eloquently than ifhe had spoken a volume.

  "Pray, sir," said I, after an awkward pause, "do you know one MasterPenry of Saint Alban Hall?"

  He laughed at that.

  "The Welshman? Verily, I know him. What do you want with him?"

  "I am to deliver him a letter from my master. Can you take me to him?"

  "No," said my companion, "for I shall never enter Oxford again."

  "Is your term done, then?" I asked.

  "For me it is," said he. "I have been here two months, and will have nomore of it."

  "But are you free to leave?" I asked--for my curiosity was roused.

  "Free!" said he: "I am here, that is enough. If my tutor come after me,there will be two men who will never see Oxford again."

  I pitied his tutor, whoever he was, when he said that.

  "But where are you going then?" I asked.

  "To-night I shall lie here. The man of the place is my friend, and willshelter me, though I have nothing to pay him. To-morrow I shall takethe road."

  Here our supper came in: a fine big trout from the river, and a dishwhich mine host called mutton, but which I smelt to be venison.

  It smote me to the heart to mark the struggle in my comrade's face tokeep down the ravenous joy which for a moment hailed the coming in ofthese good things. But the ecstasy lasted only a moment, and when Ibade him fall to, he said indifferently he had no appetite and wantednothing.

  "But it was a bargain," said I.

  So he took a small helping. It plainly cut him to the quick to receivehospitality from a 'prentice, and he would, I think, as soon havestarved, but for his promise.

  I feigned not to notice what he took; yet I could not help marking thehungry way in which he devoured what was on his platter. Then when itwas done, he rose and went to his seat at the fireplace, while Ifinished my supper at the table.

  Before I had done, I filled my cup, as was my wont, and drank to HerMajesty, bidding my guest do the same.

  He came gravely to the table at that, and filled a mug of ale to thebrim. "Here's to my Queen," said he.

  This struck me as odd, for his tone and manner were as if he weredrinking to another toast than mine. Yet I did not dare to question himabout it, and only hoped so noble a youth was one of Her Majesty's loyalservants.

  Our hos
t had but one small room with a single bed in it to offer us,which accordingly we shared for the night. Nor was it long before wewere each sound asleep, forgetful of our troubles and quarrels andweariness.

  Before we fell over, however, my comrade said:

  "When go you into Oxford?"

  "To-morrow, betimes," said I, "for my message is urgent."

  "You will have trouble enough," said he. "There is little love betweentown and gown there, and unless you like knocks, you had better sendyour letter by the hand of one who does."

  "I mind no knocks," said I, groaning a little at the memory of some Ihad received that very evening; "besides, I am bound to give my letterby my own hand."

  "Then," said he, "take my cap and gown: they are no use to me and may bea passport to you. Lend me your cloak in exchange. It will serve tohide me, while it would but betray you as an intruder inside Oxford."

  "This cloak," said I, "is the gift of my dear mistress in London. Butperhaps your advice is good. I will go into Oxford in a scholar's garb,and you meanwhile shall shelter here in my cloak till I return aboutnoon. Is it a bargain?"

  "As you please," said he, and fell asleep.

  I was the more pleased with this exchange, as I remembered what MasterUdal had said concerning the fancy Master Penry might take for my bravecloak. It would be safer here, protecting my comrade, than flaunting inthe eyes of the ravenous youth of Oxford.

  When I arose next morning with the sun, my bedfellow still sleptheavily. I could not forbear taking a look at him as he lay there. Hisface in sleep, with all the care and unrest out of it, looked like thatof some boyish, resolute Greek divinity. His arm was flung carelesslybehind his head, and the tawny hair which strayed over the pillow servedas a setting for his fine-cut features.

  But I had no time for admiring Greek divinities just then; and slippingon the scholar's robe and cap, which, to my thinking, made me amonstrous fine fellow, I left my own cloak at his bedside, and, takingmy letter, started on my errand, afoot.

  In the clear morning I could plainly see the towers of the city ahead ofme before I had been long on the road. But it is one thing to see andanother to touch. The inn where I had lain was at the river's bank, andyet no road seemed to lead to it or from it. As for mounting the riverbank, that was impossible, by reason of the thickets which crowded downto the water's edge. I had to tramp inland, through marsh and quagmire,in which more than once I thought to end my days, till, after muchsearching, I hit upon the road which led to the city. Before I enteredit the bells were clanging from a score of steeples, and many a hurryingform, clad like myself, crossed my path.

  As I gained the east bridge, there was no small tumult in progress. Fora handful of scholars, on their way to morning lecture, had fallen foulof a handful of yeomen bound for the fields, and were stoutly disputingthe passage. When I appeared, I was claimed at once by the scholars asone of them, and willy-nilly, had to throw in my lot with them. Thefight was a sharp one, for the yeomen had their sticks and shares andsickles, and laid stoutly about, whereas the scholars were unarmed, allexcept a few. At last, when two of our side had been pitched head firstover the bridge, our leaders seemed inclined to parley; but thecountrymen, puffed up with success, and calling to mind, perhaps, someold grievance, called, "No quarter! To the river with them, everyone,"and closed in.

  Then the scholars had to fight for their lives; and I, forgetting I wasnot really one of them, girt my gown about me, and, shouting to them tofollow me, charged the varlets. They were sorry then they had not endedthe matter sooner. Two or three of them went over the bridge to lookfor our comrades beneath, others were soundly cudgelled with their ownsticks, while our fists slowly did the rest. All of a sudden up rodetwo or three horsemen, at whose coming our men showed signs of panic,while the townsmen cheered loudly and made a fresh stand. This vexed mesorely, for I had supposed the battle at an end. Wherefore, I made forthe chief horseman, and, putting out all my strength, pulled him off hishorse. Scarcely had I done so when my comrades behind raised a shout of"'Tis the Mayor!--'tis the Mayor! Fly!--fly!" and off they made,dragging me with them. To think that I, a loyal London apprentice,should have lived to assault a mayor! But there was no time for excusesor reproaches. The citizens were at our heels shouting and threatening,and as they followed, the whole town turned out in hue and cry. One byone the gownsmen dodged like rabbits into their holes, leaving me, whoknew nothing of the city, almost alone. At last the enemy were almostup to me, and I was expecting every moment to be taken and perhapshanged, when, as good luck would have it, just as I turned a corner,there faced me a wall not so high but that a good leaper might get overit. Over I scrambled just as the pack in full cry rushed round thecorner.

  Then I laughed as I heard their yapping, and grumbling, and questioningwhat had become of me. But I gave them no time to find out, for,crossing the garden into which I had fallen, I quickly slipped out atthe gate into a fair cloistered square where, adjusting my battle-stained gown, I marched boldly up to the house at the gate and knocked.

  A porter came at my summons and demanded, surlily enough, what I wanted.

  "I am a fresh man here," said I, "and have lost my way. I pray youdirect me to Saint Alban Hall."

  "Saint Alban Hall?" said he. "Art thou a scholar of Saint Alban Hall?"

  "No," said I, "but I bear a message to one there, Master Penry by name."

  "How comes it," demanded the porter, who, by the tone of him, might havebeen the chancellor himself, "that you wear that gown, sirrah?"

  "That is my business," said I, seeing it was no profit to talk civillyto him, "and if you want not to see your neck wrung, give overquestions, and tell me where is Saint Alban Hall."

  He grew red in the face as I gripped his arm, which he could by no meansget free till I let him.

  "This is Saint Alban Hall," said he, "and Master Penry lives over mylodging."

  Then I thought it better to be civil to the fellow, as he guessed I hadno business there in a college gown. So I gave him a groat, and bad himtake me up forthwith.

  Master Penry was a lean, wrathful-visaged Welshman, with deep grey eyes,and a large forehead, and a mass of straight black hair down his neck.As I entered his room, which was disordered and dirty, he was pacing toand fro, talking or praying aloud in his native tongue. He let me standthere a minute or two, amazed at his jargon, and scarcely knowingwhether I had lit upon a sane man or not. Then he stopped suddenly infront of me and scanned me.

  "Well?" said he, in good English.

  "Are you Master Penry?" I asked.

  "I am. You have a message for me?"

  "I have; from Master Walgrave. Here it is," said I, putting the letterinto his hand.

  He tore it open and read it eagerly, and, as he did so, his face relaxedinto a grim smile.

  "That is well, so far," said he. Then, looking hard at me, he added,"Have you ridden from London in that disguise?"

  "No," said I, "this gown was lent me by a friend to protect me againstannoyance from the wild men of the town."

  His face suddenly turned pale and passionate.

  "Then where is the cloak your master speaks of in this letter?"

  "The cloak!" I knew from the very first there would be trouble aboutthat, and I was glad now I had left it behind in the safe keeping of mycomrade at the inn.

  "What is my cloak to you?" said I, not relishing the tone of his voice,"I have given it away to my friend."

  "Fool and jackass!" said he, gnashing his teeth, "do you know you haveruined me and your master by this?"

  "No, I do not," said I, "and as for the foul names you call me, takethem back on the instant, or I swear I will ram them down your mouth!"

  He took no notice whatever of my wrath, but went on, breaking in on hisspeech every now and then with Welsh words which I took to be curses.

  "You must get it back at any price," said he. "Lose not a moment!Where is this friend? Who is he? If he resist you, you must slay him,so
as you get it back. If it fall into the hands of an enemy, you andI, ay and your master, and all that belongs to you will perish. Ah, thefolly of the man to trust such a missive to this thick-headed blunderer!What time lost, what labour wasted, what peril run, what ruin on ourholy cause!"

  I was well out of temper by this time, and, but that he looked somiserable and ill-fed, I would have rattled his bones a bit. At last:

  "That cloak," said he, coming up to me, "contained papers sent by yourmaster to me; which, if they be found on any one's person, mean Tyburn.Do you understand that?"

  "Yes," said I, beginning to see the drift of his coil, "and if you hadtold me so at first, I had been half-way back to get it by this time.Heaven is my witness, you are welcome to the cloak if that is what itcontains; and I doubt not my friend will give it up to do you apleasure."

  "Hasten!" cried he, with tears of vexation in his eyes, "there is not amoment to be lost--nay, I will go with you. Where did you leave it?Come!"

  "Nay," said I, remembering it for the first time, "I am not very surewhere it was. 'Twas at a river-side inn, about four miles from here."

  "And who is your friend? Is he a true man?"

  "I know not that either," said I. "He is a valiant man, and hath a dirkat his girdle; and I pity the man who tries to take the cloak from himby force."

  Master Penry made another speech to himself in Welsh.

  "Fool!" exclaimed he, half blubbering. "This precious missive you leaveat an inn you know not where; with a man you know not whom; and yet yourmaster speaks of you as a trusty lad. Bah! Lead on!"

  I swallowed my wrath and obeyed him. He stalked impatiently at my side,saying nothing, but urging me forward so that I could scarcely keep pacewith him. I was in luck, in one way, to have his escort; for as I camenear the East Bridge, there lurked not a few of the townsmen who hadbeen in the fight when I assaulted the Mayor. Seeing me with MasterPenry, who, I suppose, was a man of some standing, they did not looktwice at me; else I might have been caught, and put to rest my limbs inthe cage. When we had crossed the bridge, and were in the country, mycompanion suddenly stopped.

  "This friend of yours," said he, "with the dirk in his girdle. Was he ascholar?"

  "He lent me this gown," said I.

  "An Irishman?"

  "I know not. He spoke good English, with a foreign trip of the tongue."

  "A great big boy, with wild fair hair, and hands that never are still?"

  "The very man. You know him?"

  "Do I know him? For two months I have endured the pains of the lostthrough him. A wild, untameable savage, subject to no laws, a heathen,a butcher, a scoffer at things holy, an idler, a highwayman, a traitor,a rebel, an Irish Papist wolf-hound! Do I know my own pupil? And--ohmy God!--is it he who has the coat? Oh, we are doubly lost! Knaves,fools, all conspire to ruin us!"

  I let him run on, for he was like one demented. But you may suppose Iopened my eyes as I heard this brave character of my new friend.

  "Your pupil, is he?" said I at last; "then I counsel you to stay whereyou are; for he will assuredly eat you alive if he gets you."

  The Welshman paid no head to this warning, but rushed on, jabbering inWelsh to himself, and groaning, ay, and even sobbing now and then in hisexcitement.

  At last, after an hour's hard work, we came to where I had found theroad that morning. Then, for another hour, I dragged him through theswamps and marshes. His strength had begun to fail him long ere wereached the river's bank; and he was fain, when at last we felt solidearth under our feet, to cry a halt.

  "I must rest for one moment," said he, puffing and panting and clutchingat his side in a way that made me sorry for him. Then he fell on hisknees and prayed in his own tongue, and before he was done, sunk half-fainting on a tree-trunk.

  "Master Penry," said I, helping him from the ground, "you are not fit togo on. I pray you, let me go alone. This pupil of yours is my friend,and will give me the cloak. Stay here, unless you would spoil all; forassuredly if he see you, he will turn at bay and yield nothing. The innis but a mile from here. In less than an hour I will be back with thecloak, that I vow."

  He had no strength in him to protest. So I left him there and ran ontowards the inn.