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) 📖

blame, if any, will be theirs. But, in the name of Heaven, Colonel, don't fail in lending me this thousand men! 'Twill finish the war out of hand.”

“I'll do it,” answered the Colonel slowly.

“And I'll remember it,” said the Earl. “To-morrow, at six o'clock, I set out.”

The two men shook hands on their bargain and left the room, shutting the door after them.

I crept forth from behind the screen, my heart thumping on my ribs. Thus far it had been all fear and trembling with me; but now this was chang'd to a kind of panting joy. 'Twas not that I had spied the prison keys hanging near the fireplace, nor that behind the screen lay a heap of the Colonel's riding boots, whereof a pair, ready spurr'd, fitted me choicely well; but that my ears tingled with news that turn'd my escape to a matter of public welfare: and also that the way to escape lay plann'd in my head.

Shod in the Colonel's boots, I advanc'd again to the table. With sealing-wax and the Governor's seal, that lay handy, I clos'd up the King's letter, and sticking it in my breast, caught down the bunch of keys and made for the door.

The hall was void. I snatch'd down a cloak and heavy broad-brimm'd hat from one of the pegs, and donning them, slipp'd back the bolts of the heavy door. It opened without noise. Then, with a last hitch of the cloak, to bring it well about me, I stepp'd forth into the night, shutting the door quietly on my heels.

My feet were on the pavement of the inner ward. Above, one star only broke the blackness of the night. Across the court was a sentry tramping. As I walk'd boldly up, he stopped short by the gate between the wards and regarded me.

Now was my danger. I knew not the right key for the wicket: and if I fumbled, the fellow would detect me for certain. I chose one and drew nearer; the fellow look'd, saluted, stepp'd to the wicket, and open'd it himself.

“Good night, Colonel!”

I did not trust myself to answer: but passed rapidly through to the outer ward. Here, to my joy, in the arch'd passage of the barbican gate, was the carriage waiting, the porter standing beside the door; and here also, to my dismay, was a torch alight, and under it half a dozen soldiers chatting. A whisper pass'd on my approach—

“The Colonel!” and they hurried into the guardroom.

“Good evening, Colonel!” The porter bow'd low, holding the door wide.

I pass'd him rapidly, climb'd into the shadow of the coach, and drew a long breath.

Then ensued a hateful pause, as the great gates were unbarr'd. I gripp'd ray knees for impatience.

The driver spoke a word to the porter, who came round to the coach door again.

“To Mistress Finch's, is it not?”

“Ay,” I muttered; “and quickly.”

The coachman touched up his pair. The wheels mov'd; went quicker. We were outside the Castle.

With what relief I lean'd back as the Castle gates clos'd behind us! And with what impatience at our slow pace I sat upright again next minute! The wheels rumbled over the bridge, and immediately we were rolling easily down hill, through a street of some importance: but by this time the shutters were up along the shop fronts and very few people abroad. At the bottom we turn'd sharp to the left along a broader thoroughfare: and then suddenly drew up.

“Are we come?” I wonder'd. But no: 'twas the city gate, and here we had to wait for three minutes at least, till the sentries recogniz'd the Colonel's coach and open'd the doors to us. They stood on this side and that, presenting arms, as we rattled through; and next moment I was crossing a broad bridge, with the dark Avon on either side of me, and the vessels thick thereon, their lanterns casting long lines of yellow on the jetty water, their masts and cordage looming up against the dull glare of the city.

Soon we were between lines of building once more, shops, private dwellings and warehouses intermix'd; then pass'd a tall church; and in about two minutes more drew up again. I look'd out.

Facing me was a narrow gateway leading to a house that stood somewhat back from the street, as if slipping away from between the lines of shops that wedg'd it in on either hand. Over the grill a link was burning. I stepp'd from the coach, open'd the gate, and crossing the small court, rang at the house bell.

At first there was no answer. I rang again: and now had the satisfaction to hear a light footfall coming. A bolt was pull'd and a girl appear'd holding a candle high in her hand. Quick as thought, I stepped past her into the passage.

“Delia!”

“Jack!”

“Hist! Close the door. Where is Mistress Finch?”

“Upstairs, expecting Colonel Essex. Oh, the happy day! Come—” she led me into a narrow back room and setting down the light regarded me—“Jack, my eyes are red for thee!”

“I see they are. To-morrow I was to be hang'd.”

She put her hands together, catching her breath: and very lovely I thought her, in her straight grey gown and Puritan cap.

“They have been questioning me. Didst get my letter?”

The answer was on my lip when there came a sound that made us both start.

'Twas the dull echo of a gun firing, up at the Castle.

“Delia, what lies at the back here?”

“A garden and a garden door: after these a lane leading to Redcliff Street.”

“I must go, this moment.”

“And I?”

She did not wait my answer, but running out into the passage, she came swiftly back with a heavy key. I open'd the window.

“Delia! De-lia!” 'Twas a woman's voice calling her, at the head of the stairs.

“Aye, Mistress Finch.”

“Who was that at the door?”

I sprang into the garden and held forth a hand to Delia. “In one moment, mistress!” call'd she, and in one moment was hurrying with me across the dark garden beds. As she fitted the key to the garden gate, I heard the voice again.

“De-lia!”

'Twas drown'd in a—wild rat-a-tat! on the street door, and the shouts of many voices. We were close press'd.

“Now, Jack—to the right for our lives! Ah, these clumsy skirts!”