The Black Tor: A Tale of the Reign of James the First by George Manville Fenn (best romance books of all time .txt) 📖

but only because the bottom of the dale was here free from stones, and in a very short time Ralph was overtaken.

“Here, hi! fellow! clear the road,” shouted Mark; and he essayed to stop. But now, the way being good, the cob was anxious to get on and reach its stable, passing Ralph quickly enough, and enraging its rider more and more.

“Oh, you brute, you brute!” he muttered. “Now he can’t help thinking I’m afraid of him. If I only had a whip.”

For the moment Mark felt disposed to turn in the saddle, and make some insulting gesture at the lad behind—one that would make him, if he had any courage within, come running rapidly in pursuit. But the act would have seemed too weak and boyish, when he wanted to be manly; and he refrained, contenting himself with dragging hard at the rein, till a hundred yards farther the ground grew stony again, and the pony dropped into a walk, and picked its way in and out more slowly than ever.

This had the result that Mark desired, for a glance back showed him that Ralph was coming on fast, and in a few minutes he had overtaken him, just as he sprang off his pony and faced round.

“Oh, it is you,” said Mark haughtily.

“Yes,” said Ralph, meeting his eyes boldly.

“I thought it was. Well, you are not lame now?”

“No.”

“And I see you have a sword.”

“Yes, I have my sword.”

“Then as we are equal now, and if you are not afraid, we may as well have a little conversation with them.”

“Fight?” said Ralph quietly. “Why?”

“Ha-ha!” laughed Mark, with his face flushing. “Why? Because we are gentlemen, I suppose; because we have been taught to use our swords; at least I have; and it’s the worse for you if you have not.”

“But I have,” said Ralph firmly, his own cheeks beginning to look hot; “but I don’t see that this is a reason why we two should fight.”

“Then I’ll give you another,” cried Mark; “because you are a Darley, and I am an Eden, and we cannot meet without drawing swords. Your people were always a set of cut-throats, murderers, robbers, and thieves.”

“It’s a lie,” cried Ralph hotly. “My people were always gentlemen. It was your people who always insulted ours, as you are insulting me now, and did a few minutes ago, when you passed me going quietly on my way.”

“That’s enough,” said Mark sharply. “Out of the way, beast,” and he drew his sword and struck the cob sharply on the flank, sending it trotting onward at the risk of breaking its knees.

“This is your doing,” said Ralph quietly, as he threw down his rod, and passed the strap of his creel over his head, to swing it after.

“Bah! don’t talk,” cried Mark hotly. “This place will do. It is as fair for you as for me.”

He made a gesture with his sword toward a tolerably level spot, and Ralph bowed his head.

“Then draw,” cried Mark, throwing down his cap.

Ralph followed his example, and the next moment his own bright blade leaped from its sheath, and without further preliminary, they crossed their trusty blades, which emitted a harsh grating noise as they played up and down, flashing in the paling evening light, each awaiting the other’s attack.

Mark, in the fear that his enemy would doubt his prowess, began the attack; and in defending himself from his adversary’s thrusts Ralph soon showed him that he had learned the use of his thin rapier from a master the equal of his own teacher, thus making the hot-headed youth more cautious, and ready to turn aside the thrusts which followed when he ceased his own.

They fenced equally well, and for a few minutes no harm was done. Then all at once, in response to a quick thrust, a spot appeared high up above the russet leather boot which came half-way up Mark’s thigh, and Ralph leaped back with a strange feeling of compunction attacking him that he could not understand.

“Nothing,” cried Mark angrily; “a scratch,” as he pressed his teeth upon his nether lip; and they crossed swords once more, with the wounded lad commencing the attack with as much vigour as before. And now, forgetful of everything but the desire to lay one another hors de combat, they thrust and parried for the next minute, till Ralph uttered a faint cry, as his adversary’s sword passed through his doublet, between his right arm and ribs, a sharp pang warning him that the blade had pierced something more than the velvet he wore.

Mark dropped the point of his blade, for at that moment a whistle rang out, and he looked inquiringly in the direction from which it had come, leaving himself quite open to any treacherous attack had it been intended.

But none was meant, Ralph standing with his left hand pressing his side, just below the armpit, as another whistle was heard from a fresh direction. Others followed, and the adversaries looked sharply at each other.

“Not birds,” said Ralph quickly.

“Don’t look like it,” said Mark bitterly, as he drew his breath with a hissing noise, as if in pain.

“We’re surrounded,” cried Ralph excitedly, as they saw six or seven men appearing from different directions, and evidently all making the spot where the lads now stood the centre for which they aimed.

“You coward!” cried Mark bitterly—“a trap—your father’s men. En garde!” he shouted. “You shall pay for this!”

“My father’s men?” cried Ralph angrily, as he ignored the other’s preparations for a fresh attack. “You’re mad; can’t you see they’re those scoundrels who came to us—Captain Purlrose and his men. Look, there he is—up yonder by that hole.”

“What do they mean, then?” cried Mark, dropping the point of his weapon.

“Mischief to us,” cried Ralph.

“Or me,” said Mark suspiciously.

“To us, I tell you,” cried Ralph.—“You won’t give in?”

“No; will you?”

“Not if you’ll stand by me.”

“And I will,” cried Mark excitedly.

“But you are wounded.”

“So are you.”

“I don’t feel it now.”

“No more do I. Hurrah, then; let them come on!”