The Splendid Spur<br />Being Memoirs of the Adventures of Mr. John Marvel, a Servant of His Late Maj by Arthur Quiller-Couch (the giving tree read aloud .txt) 📖

of sight of my friends, down the hill, when it struck me that my footprints in the snow were in the last degree dangerous to them, and might lead Settle and his crew straight to the dingle. Here was a fix. I stood for some minutes nonpluss'd, when above the stillness of the wood (for the wind had dropp'd) a faint sound as of running water caught my ear, and help'd me to an idea.

The sound seem'd to come from my left. Turning aside I made across the hill toward it, and after two hundred paces or so came on a tiny brook, not two feet across, that gush'd down the slope with a quite considerable chatter and impatience. The bed of it was mainly earth, with here and there a large stone or root to catch the toe: so that, as I stepped into the water and began to thread my way down between the banks of snow, 'twas necessary to look carefully to my steps.

Here and there the brook fetch'd a leap down a sharper declivity, or shot over a hanging stone: but, save for the wetting I took in these places, my progress was easy enough. I must have waded in this manner for half a mile, keeping the least possible noise, when at an angle ahead I spied a clearing among the pines, and to the right of the stream, on the very verge, a hut of logs standing, with a wood rick behind it.

'Twas a low building, but somewhat long, and I guess'd it to be, in summer time, a habitation for the woodcutters. But what surpris'd me was to hear a dull, moaning noise, very regular and disquieting, that sounded from the interior of the hut. I listen'd, and hit on the explication. 'Twas the sound of snoring.

Drawing nearer with caution, I noticed, in that end of the hut which stood over the stream, a gap, or window hole. The sound issued through this like the whirring of a dozen looms. “He must be an astonishing fellow,” thought I, “that can snore in this fashion. I'll have a peep before I wake him.” I waded down till I stood under the sill, put both hands upon it, and pulling myself up quiet as a mouse, stuck my face in at the window—and then very nearly sat back into the brook for fright.

For I had gazed straight down into the upturn'd faces of Captain Settle and his gang.

How long I stood there, with the water rushing past my ankles and my body turning from cold to hot, and back again, I cannot tell you. But 'twas until, hearing no pause in the sleepers' chorus, I found courage for another peep: and that must have been some time.

There were but six rascals beside the Captain (so that Jacques must have died hard, thought I), and such a raffle of arms and legs and swollen up-turn'd faces as they made I defy you to picture. For they were pack'd close as herrings; and the hut was fill'd up with their horses, ready saddled, and rubbing shoulder to loin, so narrow was the room. It needed the open window to give them air: and even so, 'twas not over-fresh inside.

I had no mind to stay: but before leaving found myself in the way of playing these villains a pretty trick. To right and left of the window, above their heads, extended two rude shelves that now were heap'd with what I conjectured to be the spoils of the larder of the “Three Cups.” Holding my breath and thrusting my head and shoulders into the room, I ran my hand along and was quickly possess'd of a boil'd ham, two capons, a loaf, the half of a cold pie, and a basket holding three dozen eggs. All these prizes I filched one by one, with infinite caution.

I was gently pulling the basket through the window hole, when I heard one of the crew yawn and stretch himself in his sleep. So, determining to risk no more, I quietly pack'd the basket, slung it on my right arm, and with the ham grasp'd by the knuckle in my left, made my way up the stream.

'Twas thus laden that I enter'd the dingle, and came on the sad sight therein. I set down the ham as a thing to be asham'd of, and bar'd my head. The girl lifted her face, and turning, all white and tragical, saw me.

“My father is dead, sir.”

I stoop'd and pil'd a heap of fresh snow over the blood stains. There was no intent in this but to hide the pity that chok'd me. She had still to hear about her brother, Anthony. Turning, as by a sudden thought, I took her hand. She look'd into my eyes, and her own filled with tears. 'Twas the human touch that loosen'd their flow, I think: and sinking down again beside her father, she wept her fill.

“Mistress Killigrew,” I said, as soon as the first violence of her tears was abated, “I have still some news that is ill hearing. Your enemies are encamp'd in the woods, about a half mile below this”—and with that I told my story.

“They have done their worst, sir.”

“No.”

She looked at me with a question on her lip.

Said I, “you must believe me yet a short while without questioning.”

Considering for a moment, she nodded. “You have a right, sir, to be trusted, tho' I know not so much as your name. Then we must stay close in hiding?” she added very sensibly, tho' with the last word her voice trail'd off, and she began again to weep.

But in time, having cover'd the dead baronet's body with sprays of the wither'd bracken, I drew her to a little distance and prevail'd on her to nibble a crust of the loaf. Now, all this while, it must be remembered, I was in my shirt sleeves, and the weather bitter cold. Which at length her sorrow allow'd her to notice.

“Why, you are shivering, sore!” she said, and running, drew my buff-coat from her father's body, and held it out to me.

“Indeed,” I answer'd, “I was thinking of another expedition to warm my blood.” And promising to be back in half an hour, I follow'd down my former tracks toward the stream.

Within twenty minutes I was back, running and well-nigh shouting with joy.

“Come!” I cried to her, “come and see for yourself!”

What had happen'd was this:—Wading cautiously down the brook, I had cause suddenly to prick up my ears and come to a halt. 'Twas the muffled tramp of hoofs that I heard, and creeping a bit further, I caught a glimpse, beyond the hut, of a horse and rider disappearing down the woods. He was the last of the party, as I guess'd from the sound of voices and jingling of bits further down the slope. Advancing on the hut with more boldness, I found it deserted. I scrambled up on the bank and round to the entrance. The snow before it was trampled and sullied by the footmarks of men and horses: and as I noted this, came Settle's voice calling up the slope——

“Jerry—Jerry Toy!”

A nearer voice hail'd in answer.

“Where's Reuben?”

“Coming, Captain—close behind!”