The Fifth of November Part 13

"If thou hast any friend to claim thy body, better write his name,"

said the man in the leather jerkin, as Effingston's blade touched his lightly, emitting a grating sound.

The only answer was a swift lunge, dexterously parried.

Not three blows were exchanged before Effingston realized that the man before him not only possessed the skill of one long used to sword play, but, further, combined with it the coolness and the keen eye of an old duelist. Moreover, the neutral tint of his adversary's dress offered but a poor mark by which to gauge his thrust, while his own costume, being ornamented with silver, gave his antagonist most effective guidance whereby to aim his strokes.

The other, also, came to the conclusion that no mere novice stood before him, for Effingston had turned every thrust with an ease which surprised him; and several times his sword had crept so closely to the leather jerkin that three or four brown furrows had appeared upon it.

"Enough of this child's play," Effingston's antagonist hissed between his teeth, making another furious lunge. The impetus given to the thrust would have sent the blade to the hilt into the other's body had it come in contact with it, but Effingston met the blow in a way least expected, making use of a trick but little known in England at that time, for as quickly as the sword flew forward he stepped lightly aside, at the same time advancing his own weapon. The hilts came together with a crash; the guard of one was entangled in the bell of the other, and the two rapiers remained firmly interlocked. The men now stood so closely that their b.r.e.a.s.t.s touched, the breath issuing from their parted lips mingling in clouds. Suddenly, almost simultaneously, as if one read the intent in the other's eye, each slowly moved his left arm to his side, seeking the dagger he knew hung there. Again, on the same instant, the knives flashed forth; the men sprang quickly apart; the two rapiers went spinning on the roadway, and with a clatter, became disentangled as they fell. No time for breath; each knows it is to the death, and plenty of rest awaits one or both, perchance, in a few moments. The men leaped toward each other; a confused struggle ensued. Fawkes from his post could illy make out who had the advantage. Suddenly, Effingston's foot slipped, he was almost upon his knees--the man was upon him, one hand gripped his shoulder, forcing him to the ground, the other held the knife lifted high to add force to the blow; but that coveted strength cost him his life, for before the hand could descend, Effingston quickly raised his dagger, and drove it with all his might up to the guard in the neck left unprotected by his adversary's movement. The man clutched at the figure before him, the blade flew from his grasp and he dropped with a bubbling cry to the earth, the blood spurting from him as he fell.

"Marry!" exclaimed Fawkes, who through all the contest had been craning his neck and breathing hard with excitement, "that was a brave device but not one which I should care to try myself. By the Apostle Paul!" added he in surprise on hearing the bell of a distant church strike the hour, "it is three o'clock, and here am I watching two gentlemen, whose faces I cannot even see, settle a little difficulty about a woman. But 'twas a l.u.s.ty fight, and for the moment made me forget the errand which called me forth." Saying which and with another glance down the road, he started upon his way.

The victor stood regarding his foe, who made one or two convulsive movements as if to arise, but fell back with the blood spouting from the wound and out his mouth. One more struggling effort he makes, but 'tis the last; with a violent convulsion of his whole body the man in the leather jerkin sinks to the earth to rise no more.

Effingston turned to the second figure lying upon the roadway, and as he gazed upon her, there was expressed on his countenance a certain degree of contempt, but, withal, a love which pride and resolution could not quite kill. As she lies there, the white face touched by the light of the moon, it is like looking upon the dead.

"O G.o.d," he whispered, as he suddenly knelt beside her, taking one of the white hands within his own, "would that she had died before--before----" He slowly raised the girl in his arms; then convulsively pressed the light figure to him, and letting his head sink upon her breast, sobbed as only a strong man can.

Again there was silence, broken only by the rattle of ice-covered twigs swept from the trees by the restless night wind. After a moment he regained composure and fell to chafing her hands.

A slight motion showed him the girl was slowly recovering from her long swoon. Gradually consciousness returned, and lifting her head from the cloak he had placed beneath it, she looked about in a confused way as though unable to make out her surroundings. Soon her gaze rested upon Effingston, who had drawn a little apart. Raising herself, she tottered toward him, and would have fallen had he not put an arm out to prevent her.

"What could have made thee treat me so?" she whispered, pa.s.sing a hand across her face, as if endeavoring to brush away that which hindered her thoughts. "Have I not suffered enough?" she continued, piteously.

"I was not thy a.s.sailant," answered Effingston, motioning to the figure on the road; "there he lieth; thou canst go thy way in peace."

The girl glanced in the direction and shuddered. "And how came this about?" she questioned, in a dreamy tone, casting a frightened look at the thing in the path. "Oh, now I do recollect me," added she, softly, as though to herself, seemingly oblivious of her surroundings. "I had left Sir Winter, and deeming myself quite safe, was hurrying home, when--for truth, I can remember no more until I found thee near me."

She ceased and looked up into his face with an innocent smile.

Evidently the terrible strain to which her mind had been subjected effaced from it all previous impressions, or left only an indistinct recollection of what had transpired. "It was brave of thee," she murmured, in the same dreamy tone, placing her hand upon his arm.

At the name of Winter, Effingston drew back. Had she not by those unguarded words confirmed her guilt? All his pride and anger returned.

The resolutions which had but a moment since departed, banished by that helpless figure in the moonlight, now came again with greater strength. Of what weakness, he asked himself, had he been guilty? Of kissing the lips not yet cold from the caresses of him who had defiled them.

"Very--brave--in--thee," the girl repeated, in a dull monotone.

Effingston glanced at her, but that piteously bewildered face cannot move him, and he coldly answered:

"'Tis the duty of every gentleman to protect the life of a woman, even though her shame be public talk."

Evidently the girl had not heard, or at least the words made no impression upon her brain, for she nestled closely to him like a frightened child seeking protection.

"Come," he whispered. She obeyed without a word. They pa.s.sed upon their way in silence and at last reached her dwelling. Effingston opened the door which stood unbarred, and a.s.sisted her to enter. He turned to go, not trusting himself to speak.

"Thou wert not always accustomed to leave me thus," exclaimed the girl, in a voice dest.i.tute of expression. "See," she continued, "I will kiss thee even without thy asking," and before the man realized her intent, she threw her arms about him and pressed her lips to his.

"They are cold," she murmured, with a s.h.i.+ver. "But the night is chilly--look! now the east is streaked with red." Turning, she pointed to the sky, dyed with the crimson light of coming day. The ruddy glow crept up, touching the girl and turning the snow at her feet to the color of the rose.

"Come to me, dear heart," she whispered, holding out her arms; "take me to thee, that on thy breast I may find a sweet and dreamless sleep."

The sun arose; but upon no sadder sight than this man, who plodded wearily homeward--warring forces within, and a desert all about. On his way through the silent streets, made more desolate by the cheerless light of coming day, he saw for a moment a mirage of an honorable love and happiness. In the fair city of his dream he beheld a bright and happy home, made so and adorned by the girl whose kiss was still upon his lips. There, always awaited him a heart which, through its love, added to each blessing, and dulled every sorrow.

Ever on the portal stood a being he wors.h.i.+ped, who, with her fair arms wreathed a welcome of love about him. They pa.s.s within; a bright face offers itself for a kiss; fondly he stoops, but the dream vanishes;--in the breaking of the morn he stands alone;--hope dead within his breast.

CHAPTER XIII.

AT "THE SIGN OF THE LEOPARD."

Winter waited long for his servant's return. He walked restlessly up and down the chamber, ever and anon pausing, either for recourse to the flagon on the table, or to draw aside the curtains and gaze out upon the street. At last, sinking into a chair with a muttered curse at the long delay, he fell into deep sleep, overcome by the wine in which he had so freely indulged. Dawn broke gray and cheerless. The first rays of the sun penetrated into the chamber and fell upon the sleeper,--his position was unchanged since the small hours of the night. Gradually, as the light increased, he stirred uneasily, awoke, and rubbing his eyes, looked about as though not sure of the surroundings. His eye rested upon the flagon, then slowly traveled toward the window. The recollection of the last night, however, flashed before him, and springing from the chair, he dashed out into the corridor.

"Richard!" he called. No answer followed his summons.

"Richard," he repeated, in a still louder tone. The only response was the echo of his own voice.

"What mad business be this?" exclaimed he, retracing his steps and looking wildly about the apartment. "By this cursed drink have I brought ruin to our hopes and cause. Out upon thee," he cried in a transport of pa.s.sion, suddenly seizing the flagon, and flinging it with all his might across the room. The heavy piece of metal struck the wall, sending out a deluge of wine, and falling with a crash, shattered into fragments an ivory crucifix resting upon a small table.

Winter stood aghast at the havoc wrought.

"An omen," he whispered, white to the lips, glancing about with frightened looks, then kneeling to take up the broken cross.

"See," he cried, holding with trembling fingers the image of the crucified Savior which had escaped the wreck, and now dripped with wine;--"Christ's wounds do open their red mouths and bleed afresh at my awful deeds." The man arose, crossed himself, and thrust the image into his doublet, then wiping the sweat from his brow sank into a chair.

"'Tis not by these tremblings, or vain regrets, that I may fortify myself, or mend what's done," he exclaimed. "I must bethink me, and let reason check the consequences of my folly. The girl a.s.severated that she heard all which transpired at her house last night. Oh, most unfortunate chance which gave the words into her ear! What foul fiend did raise the cup to my lips and leave my wit too weak to turn the deadly stroke? Nay," he continued, after several moments, shaking his head, "she'll not make known the purport of our speech, for the love she bears her father is a potent hostage for her silence, and if I be judge, Mistress Elinor will make scant mention of her visit yesternight. Even if there be small love in her heart for me, a most wholesome fear doth take its place, and for my present purpose one will serve as fittingly as the other. Marry," he continued, with a smile, seemingly relieved by his reflections, "thy ready wit hath at last returned; but by St. Paul! what hath become of that varlet Richard? 'Tis more than likely the open door of some pot house spoke more strongly to him than my command, and 'tis most providential if my surmise be true; I must have been mad indeed to trust the rogue on such a mission. Small doubt but that he heard all which transpired here last night, for he hath a most willing ear to listen, and a tongue given to wag. 'Twould be a heaven-sent deed if something would occur to silence his speech, for his knowledge, if he hath the wit to know its value, may be a deadly menace to our cause. When he returns I'll give the knave silver to quit the country; or, perchance," he added, a hard, cunning look coming into his eyes as he put his hand upon a small dagger at his side, "if that will not suffice, 'twill be necessary for our safety to introduce him to more st.u.r.dy metal."

The man arose and proceeded to efface the marks of dissipation, and set his disordered dress to rights, saying as he finished, "I must to my appointment with Garnet. Marry," he added, donning hat and mantle, "I hope he is safely housed, and that my letter to Giles Martin, which the worthy prelate was to present, did insure him some extra attention, as a pot house, at its best, must be a poor refuge for a priest."

It was early in the morning and few people were astir.

"Gramercy," quoth Winter, when he had proceeded some distance on his way, "would that some person were abroad that I might enquire the direction to 'The Sign of the Leopard;' I swear," he added, glancing about, "it must be in this neighborhood, but I can illy guess where."

Looking, he perceived a group of men a little distance down the street. "There be some worthies," exclaimed he, "who can perhaps direct me to the hostelry." As he approached he saw they were regarding a figure lying upon the ground.

"Nay, Master Alyn," said one, "thou hadst best do naught but let it await removal by the King's guard; if thou disturb the body surely questions might be asked which 'twould bother thy head to answer."

"Beshrew my heart," exclaimed the man addressed, who, judging from his appearance, was a small tradesman, "I can ill afford to have this evil thing lying upon my step, preventing what little trade might drift this way."

Winter now came up with the group, and as they turned at the sound of his footsteps, he could see that the object of their remarks was a man lying face downward on the flagging, and his att.i.tude of relaxation showed that death had overtaken him.

"What hast thou here, my men?" Sir Thomas exclaimed, "some victim of a drunken brawl?"

"That we cannot make out," answered the first speaker, touching his hat, on perceiving--by his dress and manner--that the questioner was a gentleman, possibly one in authority, "but for truth, he has been stuck as pretty as a boar at Yule-tide. Thou mayst look for thyself,"

he added, with some little pride, as of a showman exhibiting his stock, and laying hold of the body by the shoulders he turned it over, so that the distorted face gazed up at the sky.

Winter started at the sight, unable to repress a cry, for before him was the body of his servant. His wish had indeed been fulfilled; those silent lips would tell no tales.

"What, good sir!" cried he who seemed to be the spokesman of the party, on noting the white face of the other; "doth thy stomach turn so readily?"

"Nay," replied Winter, raising a gauntlet to hide his emotion, "but they who meet death suddenly are seldom sweet to look upon, and--and--for truth, I have not yet broke my fast; canst direct me to a certain hostelry in this neighborhood known as 'The Sign of the Leopard?'"