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) 📖

well apart, she with the vanguard and I in the rear, seeing only the winding column, the dejected heads bobbing in front as they bent to the slanting rain, the cottagers that came out to stare as we pass'd; and hearing but the hoarse words of command, the low mutterings of the men, and always the monotonous tramp-tramp through the slush and mire of the roads.

'Tis like a bad dream to me, and I will not dwell on it. That night we pass'd at Chippenham—a small market town—and on the morrow went tramping again through worse weather, but always amid the same sights and sounds. There were moments when I thought to go mad, wrenching at my cords till my wrists bled, yet with no hope to escape. But in time, by good luck, my wits grew deaden'd to it all, and I march'd on with the rest to a kind of lugubrious singsong that my brain supplied. For hours I went thus, counting my steps, missing my reckoning, and beginning again.

Daylight was failing when the towers of Bristol grew clear out of the leaden mist in front; and by five o'clock we halted outside the walls and beside the ditch of the castle, waiting for the drawbridge to be let down. Already a great crowd had gather'd about us, of those who had come out to learn news of the defeat, which, the day before some fugitives had carried to Bristol. To their questions, as to all else, I listen'd like a man in a trance: and recall this only—that first I was shivering out in the rain and soon after was standing beside Delia, under guard of a dozen soldiers, and shaking with cold, beneath a gateway that led between the two wards of the castle. And there, for an hour at least, we kick'd our heels, until from the inner ward Captain Stubbs came striding and commanded us to follow.

Across the court we went in the rain, through a vaulted passage, and passing a screen of carved oak found ourselves suddenly in a great hall, near forty yards long (as I reckon it), and rafter'd with oak. At the far end, around a great marble table, were some ten or more gentlemen seated, who all with one accord turn'd their eyes upon us, as the captain brought us forward.

The table before them was litter'd with maps, warrants, and papers; and some of the gentlemen had pens in their hands. But the one on whom my eyes fastened was a tall, fair soldier that sat in the centre, and held his Majesty's letter, open, in his hand: who rose and bow'd to me as I came near.

“Sir,” he said, “the fortune of war having given you into our hands, you will not refuse, I hope, to answer our questions.”

“Sir, I have nought to tell,” answer'd I, bowing in return.

With a delicate white hand he wav'd my words aside. He had a handsome, irresolute mouth, and was, I could tell, of very different degree from the merchants and lawyers beside him.

“You act under orders from the—the—”

“Anti-Christ,” put in a snappish little fellow on his right.

“I do nothing of the sort,” said I. — “Well, then, sir, from King Charles.”

“I do not.”

“Tush!” exclaim'd the snappish man, and then straightening himself up—“That boy with you—that fellow disguis'd as a countryman—look at his boots!—he's a Papist spy!”

“There, sir, you are wrong!”

“I saw him—I'll be sworn to his face—I saw him, a year back, at Douai, helping at the mass! I never forget faces.”

“Why, what nonsense!” cried I, and burst out laughing.

“Don't mock at me, sir!” he thunder'd, bringing down his fist on the table. “I tell you the boy is a Papist!” He pointed furiously at Delia, who, now laughing also, answer'd him very demurely—-

“Indeed, sir—”

“I saw you, I say.”

“You are bold to make so certain of a Papist—”

“I saw you!”

“That cannot even tell maid from man!”

“What is meant by that?” asks the tall soldier, opening his eyes.

“Why, simply this, sir: I am no boy at all, but a girl!”

There was a minute, during which the little man went purple in the face, and the rest star'd at Delia in blank astonishment.

“Oh, Jack,” she whisper'd in my ear, “I am so very, very sorrow: but I cannot wear these hateful clothes much longer.”

She fac'd the company with a rosy blush.

“What say you to this?” ask'd Colonel Essex—for 'twas he—turning round on the little man.

“Say? What do I say? That the fellow is a Papist, too. I knew it from the first, and this proves it!”