The Serf Part 26

Felix had thrown off his habit, and his ma.s.sive neck and chest, covered with black hair, lay open to the genial warmth. His black hair and eyes, his ruddy cheeks, were in fine colour contrast; he was a study in black and crimson. He lay at length, his head pillowed on a catskin rug, and looked up at Lisole, who leaned his length against the side of the cabin.

The jester had a thin metal rod in his hand, part of his cooking apparatus, his poker in fact, and all unconsciously he began to use it to emphasise his remarks--the fools baton of his happier days. Now that the pressure on his brain, the dead-weight of hate, had been removed, a kind of reflex action took place. He became a little like his former self.

"Old Fenward," said the monk, "thou art changing as the worm to the winged fly! Thy wit fattens and mars with sorrow! On this day of deliverance make some sport for us; show thy old tricks, as Seigneur David leapt before the Lord. There is no sin in mirth--out of cloister," he added with a sudden afterthought, as a quick vision of Richard Espec crossed his mind.

Hyla sat at the edge of the little deck and looked on, wondering, his hard brown feet just touched the water. His face had sunk once more into its old pa.s.sive unemotional aspect. A gaudy marsh fly, in its livery of black and yellow, had settled upon his hand, but he made no movement to brush it away.

The trio were beautifully grouped against the background of vivid green reeds, surrounded by the still brown water. To any one coming suddenly upon the quaint old boat lying among the white and yellow water-flowers, and its strange distinctive crew, the picture would have remained for long as an unforgettable mental possession.

The accidents of time, place, and colour, had so beautifully blended into a perfectly proportioned whole that it seemed more of design than chance.

Lisole smiled down at the big man. "My jesting days are long gone by,"

he said. "But, messires, I will try my hand for you this noon if perchance it has not lost all cunning. Once I had knowledge of the art of legerdemain, by which the hands, moving very swiftly and with concealed motions, do so trick and deceive the eye that he knows not what a-hath seen."

With a gurgle of satisfaction, Brother Felix sat up and propped himself against the cabin. Hyla drew nearer, with attentive eyes.

Lisole left them for a moment and went inside the cabin. He came out with several articles in his hands, which he put beside him on the deck.

He showed them his bare hands, and then suddenly stretching out his right arm he caught at the empty air, and, behold! there came into his hand, how they could not tell, a little rod of black wood a foot in length or more.

A swift change came into his voice. It sank a full tone and became very solemn. His face was very grave. Hyla watched him with wide eyes and parted lips.

He turned to the serf, "Now, Hyla," said he, "art about to witness art magic, but none of Satan's, so be brave. Take you this little wand of enchaunted ebon-wood and say what dost make of it."

Very timidly, and with a half withdrawal, Hyla's great brown paw took the toy. He examined it, smelt it like a dog, and then with some relief gave it back to the owner.

"'Tis but a little stick of wood," he said.

"Natheless, a stick of good magic, thrall, for 'twas of this wood that the coffin of Mahound was built."

Hyla crossed himself reverently. He was surprised to see the monk was smiling easily. "The holy man has known these things of old," thought he, with a humble recognition of his own limitations and ignorance. "He seemeth nothing accoyed."

Lisole cleared a s.p.a.ce on the deck in front of him, and laid the wand upon it. Then he stretched out his hand over it, as though in invocation. "_By the Garden of Alamoot where thou grew_," he cried, "_and by the virtue of the blood of Count Raymond of Tripoli, whose blood fell on thee as he died in that garden, I command thee to do my will, little black stick_."

He took a little pipe of reed from his belt, and, stopping one end with his finger, blew softly through it.

A mellow flute-like note quivered through the air. Hardly pausing for breath, the jester continued the monotonous cooing sound for several minutes.

Hyla watched the wand with fascinated eyes. Suddenly it began to tremble slightly and to roll this way and that. The pipe changed its notes and broke into the lilt of a simple dance. Simultaneously with the change the little stick rose up on its end and inclined itself gravely to each of them in turn. Then it began to hop up and down, retreating and advancing, in time to the music.

Hyla's tongue clave to the roof of his mouth. His lips were hot and dry, his throat seemed as if he had been eating salt.

A horrid fear began to rise within him, such strange fear as he had never known, as he watched the devilish little stick--how human it was!--in its fantastic dance. He did not see that both Felix and Lisole were regarding him with the most intense amus.e.m.e.nt. The monk was grinning from ear to ear, and his hands were pressed to his sides in the effort to control a paroxysm of internal laughter.

Suddenly the music stopped. The stick ceased all movement, standing upright upon its end. Then--horror!--very slowly, but with great deliberation, it began to hop towards Hyla. Nearer and nearer it came, in little jumps of an inch or so. The tan of the serf's face turned a dusky cream colour, he put out both hands to ward off the evil thing.

But it hopped on relentlessly.

It came within a foot or two, and Hyla's terror welled up within him so fiercely that he gave a loud cry, stepped back, and with an echoing splash disappeared into the water over the boat side.

He rose almost immediately, spluttering and gasping, the shock depriving him of his senses.

Peals of laughter, echoing uncontrollable peals, saluted him. Felix thundered out his joy, the jester's thin voice shrieked in merriment.

Hyla trod water, staring at them in amazement.

"Come aboard, man! Come aboard!" cried the monk at length. "'Twas naught but a jest, a jougleur's trick, oh slayer of Lords!" His laughter forbade speech once more.

They helped the poor fellow on deck once more, and rea.s.sured him. But it was long before he began to like his company again. He remembered the shrine inside the cabin, the sudden appearance of the jester's torch through the mists of night, and longed most devoutly to be back at work on the good brown fields.

Till evening fell and supper-time was at hand, Lisole entertained them.

Never had he been more skilful and more full of humour than on this, his "farewell appearance," as he would have called it nowadays.

In his hands a wild duck's egg came, went, and changed, until Hyla's arm was tired with crossing himself. Water poured into an earthen jar changed into chopped straw in a single moment. Never were such wonders before on earth.

But as day went, so gaiety went with it. And before rest the monk said prayers at the lighted shrine of Isoult the Healer. He prayed for a safe pa.s.sage over the waters on the morrow, and that the healing virtues of the relics before them might grow stronger and more powerful as they reposed before the Host in Church.

Then they all said the Lord's Prayer together, and so to sleep.

But Hyla's rest was fitful and disturbed. Strange broken dreams flitted through it. Often during the night he lay awake and heard the heavy snoring of his companions. The sound brought little sense of companions.h.i.+p with it. He was alone with his thoughts and the night.

In the early morning they set forth gravely, as befitted the solemn business they were about.

The precious coffer was laid reverently upon a bed of reeds in the punt, and, as the air was very still, the thick candle was lighted and placed before it. It was a very feeble, dusty, yellow gleam in the suns.h.i.+ne.

They set slowly out, down the brown channel among the rushes. The birds were singing.

The monk blessed the boat and the holy relics, and Lisole took a last long look at his floating home ere they turned a corner and it pa.s.sed from view.

He was very silent now that he had left everything. His thoughts were sad, for he was but human. That little refuge had been Home. He had been alone with the memory of Isoult there. They forged up the creek towards the lake, and his eyes fell upon the iron-bound box.

Then his face brightened. He set it towards the Island of Icomb, and made the sign of the cross. Nor did he look back any more.

About half-way over the lake they rested, and ate some bread and broiled fish. Till then Hyla's strong arms had rowed them, and now Lisole prepared to relieve him.

They were busy with the victuals in the bottom of the boat when a shout floated over the water, sudden and startling. They had thought no one near.

Looking up they saw a large boat manned by many oars, but two hundred yards away. It was strange they had not heard the rattle in the rowlocks.

A man in a s.h.i.+rt of chain mail stood upright in the bows, and a levelled cross-bow threatened them.

They gazed stupidly at the advancing terror. In forty seconds the boat was lying motionless beside them. Hyla saw many cruel, exulting, well-known faces. The monk began Latin prayers. Lisole grasped the iron-bound box.

Suddenly Hyla became aware that a harsh voice was speaking. "We have no quarrel with you, Sir Monk, nor with your boatman. Natheless, unless you wish death, you will give that serf Hyla up to us without trouble. We are in luck to-day. We but thought to find the bodies of dead friends."

The rapid pattering Latin went on unceasingly, Hyla was lifted from the punt by strong, eager arms. A push sent the smaller vessel gliding away, he saw the distance opening out between--the ripples sparkled in the sun.