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) 📖

the threshold, with his back to me, stood a grey-bearded servant, and totter'd so that the lantern shook in his hand. It sham'd me to lift a pike against one so weak. Instead, I dropp'd it with a clatter, and leap'd forward. The old fellow jumped like a boy, turn'd, and fac'd me with dropp'd jaw, which gave me an opportunity to thrust four or five bullets, not over roughly, into his mouth. Then, having turn'd him on his back, I strapp'd Delia's kerchief tight across his mouth, and took the lantern from his hand.

Not a word was said. Sure, the poor old man's wits were shaken, for he lay meek as a mouse, and star'd up at me, while I unstrapp'd his belt and bound his feet with it. His hands I truss'd up behind him with his own neckcloth; and catching up the lantern, left him there. I lock'd the door after me, and slip'd the key into my pocket as I sprang up the stairs beyond.

But here a light was shining, so once more I extinguish'd my lantern. The steps ended in a long passage, with a handsome lamp hanging at the uttermost end, and beneath this lamp I stepp'd into a place that fill'd me with astonishment.

'Twas, I could not doubt, the entrance hall of the governor's house. An oak door, very massive, fronted me; to left and right were two smaller doors, that plainly led into apartments of the house. Also to my left, and nigher than the door on that side, ran up a broad staircase, carpeted and brightly lit all the way, so that a very blaze fell on me as I stood. Under the first flight, close to my left shoulder, was a line of pegs with many cloaks and hats depending therefrom. Underfoot, I remember, the hall was richly tiled in squares of red and white marble.

Now clearly, this was a certain place wherein to be caught. “But,” thought I, “behind one of the two doors, to left or to right, must lie the governor's room of business; and in that room—as likely as not—his keys.” Which door, then, should I choose? For to stay here was madness.

While I stood pondering, the doubt was answer'd for me. From behind the right-hand door came a burst of laughter and clinking of glasses, on top of which a man's voice—the voice of Colonel Essex—call'd out for more wine.

I took a step to the door on the left, paus'd for a second or two with my hand on the latch, and then cautiously push'd it open. The chamber was empty.

'Twas a long room, with a light burning on a square centre table, and around it a mass of books, loose papers and documents strewn, seemingly without order. The floor too was litter'd with them. Clearly this was the Colonel's office.

I gave a rapid glance around. The lamp's rays scarce illumin'd the far corners; but in one of these stood a great leathern screen, and over the fireplace near it a rack was hanging, full of swords, pistols, and walking canes. Stepping toward it I caught sight of Anthony's sword, suspended there amongst the rest (they had taken it from me on the day of my examination); which now I took down and strapp'd at my side. I then chose out a pistol or two, slipped them into my sash, and advanced to the centre table.

Under the lamplight lay His Majesty's letter, open.

My hand was stretch'd out to catch it up, when I heard across the hall a door open'd, and the sound of men's voices. They were coming toward the office.

There was scarce time to slip back, and hide behind the screen, before the door latch was lifted, and two men enter'd, laughing yet.

“Business, my lord—business,” said the first ('twas Colonel Essex): “I have much to do to-night.”

“Sure,” the other answer'd, “I thought we had settled it. You are to lend me a thousand out of your garrison—”

“Which, on my own part, I would willingly do. Only I beg you to consider, my lord, that my position here hangs on a thread. The extreme men are already against me: they talk of replacing me by Fiennes—”

“Nat Fiennes is no soldier.”

“No: but he's a bigot—a stronger recommendation. Should this plan miscarry, and I lose a thousand men—-”

“Heavens alive, man! It cannot miscarry. Hark ye: there's Ruthen of Plymouth will take the south road with all his forces. A day's march behind I shall follow—along roads to northward—parallel for a way, but afterward converging. The Cornishmen are all in Bodmin. We shall come on them with double their number, aye, almost treble. Can you doubt the issue?”

“Scarcely, with the Earl of Stamford for General.”

The Earl was too far occupied to notice this compliment.

“'Twill be swift and secret,” he said, “as Death himself—and as sure. Let be the fact that Hopton is all at sixes and sevens since the Marquis shipp'd for Wales: and at daggers drawn with Mohun.”

Said the Colonel slowly—“Aye, the notion is good enough. Were I not in this corner, I would not think twice. Listen now: only this morning they forc'd me to order a young man's hanging, who might if kept alive be forc'd in time to give us news of value. I dar'd not refuse.”

“He that you caught with the King's letter?”

“Aye—a trumpery missive, dealing with naught but summoning of the sheriff's posse and the like. There is more behind, could we but wait to get at it.”

“The gallows may loosen his tongue. And how of the girl that was taken too?”

“I have her in safe keeping. This very evening I shall visit her, and make another trial to get some speech. Which puts me in mind—”

The Colonel tinkled a small hand bell that lay on the table.

The pause that followed was broken by the Earl.

“May I see the letter?”

The Colonel handed it, and tinkled the bell again, more impatiently. At length steps were heard in the hall, and a servant open'd the door.

“Where is Giles?” ask'd the Colonel. “Why are you taking his place?”

“Giles can't be found, your honor.”

“Hey?”

“He's a queer oldster, your honor, an' maybe gone to bed wi' his aches and pains.”

(I knew pretty well that Giles had done no such thing: but be sure I kept the knowledge safe behind my screen.)

“Then go seek him, and say—No, stop: I can't wait. Order the coach around at the barbican in twenty minutes from now—twenty minutes, mind, without fail. And say—'twill save time—the fellow's to drive me to Mistress Finch's house in St. Thomas' Street—sharp!”

As the man departed on his errand, the Earl laid down His Majesty's letter.

“Hang the fellow,” he said, “if they want it: the