CHAPTER V.

RAPIERS TO THE RESCUE.

It was already dark as night when Gilbert Oglander and Timothy Trollope, having kept their tryst in the old market-place, made their way together out of the dimly-lighted town. The wind had changed to the north-east, and snow had come with it. The white flakes swept along with a mad horizontal rush, alighting only, as by accident, when some tree or cottage or human figure barred their onward career. The two lads pulled down their caps about their tingling ears, bent their whitened bodies forward against the blast, and strode along regardless of the slush and mud upon the road.

Neither spoke much until they had walked almost a mile's distance away from the town and were out in the open country. Here the snow seemed to be falling thicker and the wind to be blowing almost a gale.

"Methinks thou hadst best have kept thy cloak to thyself, Master Gilbert," remarked Timothy at length, as he passed under the friendly shelter of a thick hedge, "for it had been of far greater use to thee than to the old man you so generously gave it to. Here are we exposed to the bitterness of this storm, while he, I will warrant me, is already at home before a goodly fire, or else carousing with his boon companions in some comfortable tavern parlour."

Gilbert walked on a few paces in silence.

"It matters little to me whether the cloak hath been of use to the poor fellow or not," he presently said. "I saw him tremble with the cold, and could not think of him going half-clothed while I had a garment to spare. And when one thinks on't, Tim, 'tis surely a hard matter for a seaman who hath spent half a lifetime in tropic countries to come home here to England in the very depth of winter."

"Pooh!" objected Timothy. "But 'tis said that an Englishman can endure any climate in the world and suffer no ill from it. What of Sir Martin Frobisher and his crews, who voyaged far up into the frozen regions of the Arctic, where, 'tis said, there be whole mountains of ice, and where even the salt seas be frozen over for a full half of the year? I will engage that Sir Martin and his men met not such kindly gentlemen up in those parts to give them warm cloaks withal. And as for this old man Hartop, I'd be in nowise astonished to-morrow if I heard that he had sold your cloak to a pawnbroker and spent the money in strong liquors, or else thrown it away in the dice-box. You cannot persuade me, Master Gilbert, that a man who hath been for a score of years in foreign lands could come home so poor as this man, if he had not squandered all his gains in wanton idleness."

"Misfortune doth ofttimes come even to those who are righteous," remarked Gilbert Oglander in a sober voice as he shook the wet snow from the front of his doublet and hitched his sword anew under his arm, "and I will not believe that the man who could devoutly thank God, as Hartop did, for having brought him safely home, could be aught but an honest man at heart."

"Nevertheless," pursued Timothy, "I do greatly fear that your charity in this present case was misplaced; for as I was passing nigh to the sign of the Three Flagons on my way to the market-place just now, I encountered once again the dark-eyed youth whom we saw coming from off the ship. He besought me to tell him, if I could, whither the old man Hartop had gone, and did even offer to reward me if I could aid him in arresting the old rascal, as he called him. He spoke in such wise that I could only believe that the old mariner had committed some cruel offence against him. And, indeed, Master Gilbert, if you remember, this Hartop was truly in a mighty desperate hurry to separate himself from his shipmates."

"Well, well, 'tis no affair of ours, Tim, howsoever it be," returned Gilbert. And he bent down his head and marched on in silence.

Tim Trollope walked in advance of his young master to shield him from the snow; and thus they plodded on their way, until they came to a narrow lane bordered by high overhanging trees that increased the darkness, and amid whose leafless, dripping branches the wind whistled and moaned. As the two turned into the lane Timothy dropped back to his companion's side.

"There is a matter upon which I listed to speak with you," he abruptly said, and then was silent for a dozen strides. "'Tis about the man we saw to-day--" he added, "the man with the scarred cheek."

"And what of him?" questioned Gilbert. "Hast learned peradventure that he hath discovered a new Eldorado? or that his ship is laden with a cargo of talking poll-parrots and gambolling monkeys? What of him, quotha?"

"Nay, I have learned but little concerning either him or his ship," answered Timothy. "But when I was in at the Pestle and Mortar this afternoon, he also was there, getting his hair and beard trimmed, and it chanced that he did question my father most curiously touching my lord your grandfather and your late uncle Jasper. It seemeth that he knew both your father and your uncle. And more especially was he interested as to yourself, Master Gilbert."

"How so?" exclaimed Gilbert, growing attentive now. "But if I heard him aright as he spoke to the woman who was with him, 'twas surely in the Portuguese that he spoke, and I marvel how any Portugal man could have known my father."

"'Tis true that he did speak in a foreign tongue," responded Timothy, "but, for all that, I take him to be an Englishman born, if indeed he be not even a man of Devon. My reason for speaking of him, however, is that he showed a very strange and surprising concern in the matter of my Lord Champernoun's title and estates. When he was told that your uncle Jasper had died of a malaria out on the Spanish Main, a smile came upon his face. It was as if he knew a vast deal more about Jasper Oglander than we could tell him. 'Twas not my business to question one of my father's customers; but had I been bold enough I should certainly have asked him if 'twas not true, as I do suspect, that he had some part in the death of your uncle; for you must not forget, Master Gilbert, that the matter was never very clearly explained to us. Even Sir Richard Grenville threw some doubt upon the report that he died of a fever, and suggested that 'twas by the hand of man that he was taken off. And, indeed, if all we have heard of Jasper Oglander be true, he was a man (saving your presence) of such evil ways, that 'twould be no great wonder to me if he had been murdered by some one whom he had injured out there in wild Virginia."

"Thou'rt too prone to listen to idle gossip, Tim," rejoined Gilbert in a tone of reproof; "ay, and too ready to draw your own conclusions. For my own part I am willing to believe that Uncle Jasper was a far better man than report hath made him out to be. 'Tis true that I never knew him, and that I never even set eyes upon him save when I was a little child, and too young to judge of his character. But my grandfather hath never spoken an ill word of him in my hearing, and, prithee, what should that bode but that Jasper was a very worthy and proper gentleman?"

"Not in your hearing, it may well be," interposed Timothy, "but I do assure you that my lord hath no great cause to love his younger son's memory. As for your father (God rest him!), he and his brother Jasper were ever at enmity."

Gilbert walked on for many moments without speaking, but at last he said:

"I have heard more than once of that enmity, Tim, but never yet have I discovered its cause. Canst tell me why it was that they quarrelled, lad?"

"There were divers causes, Master Gilbert," returned Tim. "But for the most part the enmity arose (or so at least I have been told) out of Jasper Oglander's envy and jealousy. He was jealous of your father's greater wit and learning; of his greater skill in all games and manly sports; jealous in that his brother Edmund was chosen by the Queen to be one of Her Majesty's pages at the court and afterwards one of her favoured courtiers. But more than all else, 'tis said that he was jealous in that your father was the elder son, and by consequence the heir to the Champernoun title and lands. Also, you must understand--"

Gilbert suddenly gripped his companion's arm.

"Hark!" he cried. "Prithee, what is that strange wailing sound that I hear?"

Timothy came to a stand-still and held his breath, listening for a few moments.

"I hear naught whatsoever," said he, "naught but the wailing of the wind among the trees. Yet wait! there was in truth another sound. Was't not the screech of some wild bird of the night? No; 'tis there again. 'Tis someone singing--some wayfarer chanting a ditty to scare away the ghosts."

"Even so it is," agreed Gilbert. "Ay, and a likely place for a ghost too, down yonder in Beddington Dingle. I had rather travel a good five miles round than pass through that dark and desolate wood after midnight."

"And I also," returned Timothy, resuming his steady strides; "but less from the fear of ghosts and goblins than from dread of footpads and thievish vagabonds; for the place hath been overrun with them these many weeks past. 'Twas in that self-same hollow that Farmer Uscombe was robbed of his purse, and ten angels in it, only a seven nights since. Faith, my master, but the man in front of us hath truly a lusty and tuneful voice! Ay, and a clear. You can e'en hear his very words. 'Tis some mariner's song he singeth, touching the taming of the blustering winds or some such theme. Hark at him!"

The two lads gave no thought to the continuance of their broken conversation, but walked silently onward through the dark lane, guiding their way by the level patches of snowy ground that lay between the high and shadowy banks at the roadside. The wayfarer in advance of them was either walking very slowly or else coming towards them from the opposite direction, for his merry ditty became more and more distinct with every step they took.

"Who thinks to strive against the stream, And for to sail without a mast, Or without compass cross the main, His travel is forlorn and waste; And so in cure of all his pain His travel is his chiefest gain.

"So he likewise, that goes about To please each eye and every ear, He needs to have, withouten doubt, A golden gift with him to bear; For ill report shall be his gain Though he bestow both toil and pain.

"God grant each man once to amend; God send us all a happy place; And let us pray unto the end That we may have our prince's grace: Amen, amen! so shall we gain A due reward for all our pain."

Thus he sang. And at the close of each verse he broke out into a lively chorus that echoed through the woods. Towards the last, however, he stopped very suddenly, and his melody presently gave place to a loud alarming cry for help.

"Thieves! Cut-purses!" he cried "Ah, had I but a sword!"

The two lads set off at once at a quick run in the direction whence the cry had come.

They had gone but fifty yards or so, when at a sharp turn in the lane they came upon some four men whose figures loomed darkly through the mist of falling snow. One of the men lay struggling on the ground trying to disentangle his head and arms from his cloak, while two of his assailants knelt over him, the one evidently robbing him of such valuables as he might have about him, the other with a dagger threateningly drawn. The fourth man stood apart, encouraging them in their evil work.

Gilbert and Timothy understood in a moment what was going on. The victim of this night attack was doubtless the wayfarer whom they had heard but a few minutes before carolling his moral ditty; and these three vagabonds had fallen upon him from their ambush in the dingle, where they had probably waited with intent to waylay the first passer-by and rob him.

"Out with your rapier, Master Gilbert!" cried Timothy as he drew his own weapon. "We must e'en rescue the man. Yet use your blade discreetly, for 'twill go ill with us if we do slay one of the rascals."

He flung himself upon the man nearest to him--the one with the drawn dagger,--caught him by the neck and hurled him back into the ditch. Gilbert Oglander was about to deal in like manner with the other robber, when the third man, who had hitherto stood apart,--a very tall man, wearing a wide slouched hat and a long cloak,--sprang upon him and forced him back.

Timothy now stood over their fallen victim, guarding him while he struggled to his knees. In the meantime the one whom Tim had flung into the ditch had regained his feet and drawn his rapier. Wrapping the skirt of his cloak about his left arm, he leapt upon Gilbert Oglander. In the darkness Gilbert scarcely saw his intention, and might have been taken wholly unaware had not Timothy warned him at the right moment. Gilbert caught his adversary's rapier on his own blade and returned the attack. The man facing him was small, lithe, and evidently well skilled in the use of his weapon. Bending his body forward, he stretched forth his cloaked left arm, thus shielding himself. Gilbert made a thrust at the man's right side, but with no greater result than to strike a spark of fire from the other's blade. In recovering his balance he felt his left foot slip upon a clod of snow; he fell forward, and at the same moment there was a sharp twinge of pain in the upper part of his right arm. His sword dropped from his grasp and he rolled over.

When he rose to his feet again he saw that the three robbers had escaped. Timothy, and the wayfarer who had been the cause of this encounter, were down in the ditch, peering through a dark gap in the bank by which the three vagabonds had made their way into the wood.

"The rascals! They have escaped us!" Timothy was saying. "Well, there is small harm done, and no one is hurt!"

"Small harm, say you?" cried the wayfarer, speaking now for the first time. "But they have robbed me--robbed me of all that I had in the world!"

"Your all cannot surely have been much, my friend, since you carried it with you so lightly," said Timothy. "There is little use in making such dole over a trifle."

"Ah, you do not know, you do not know!" said the other, pacing to and fro in his dire distress. "As well might they have taken my life as what they have gone off with."

Timothy searched into the man's face, yet saw nothing to enlighten him in the black darkness.

"Art thou of Plymouth?" he presently asked.

"That I am, my master," came the reply. "My name, sirs, is Jacob Hartop--Jacob Hartop that went out with John Hawkins in the year sixty-seven, and that hath now come home only to be waylaid and robbed by a parcel of villainous cut-purses that sprang upon me from among the trees yonder. I had not heard them behind me, for it chanced that, being somewhat lonesome on dry land, I fell to chanting a little song, as it were for company's sake. I warrant me the ruffians would not so have overpowered me had they not thrown my cloak over my eyes and mouth, and thus disabled me from defending myself."

He drew the garment about his shoulders, turning up its high collar round his neck. "'Tis a cloak that a kindly young gentleman gave unto me as I stepped ashore," he went on. "Had I been without it I might have worsted my assailants; and yet had I not had it I must surely have been slain, for one of the villains stabbed at me with his dagger with intent to take my life, and by God's providence the blade, instead of entering my heart, struck upon one of these gay silver buttons."

He paused and looked at Gilbert as the lad limped towards him. Even in the darkness he seemed to recognize him.

"Now, beshrew me if thou art not the self-same young gentleman who gave me the cloak," he cried in grateful surprise. Then, noticing that Gilbert walked lame, he added, "But thou art limping! Hast hurt thy leg in the scrimmage?"

Timothy glanced in alarm at his young master, and besought him to tell what injury he had received.

"I slipped on the snow," explained Gilbert, "and gave my foot a twist. 'Tis naught to speak of. Come, let us hasten home. Sir Francis Drake hath gone to spend the night with my grandfather and certain of his friends from London, and we may yet be in time to hear him relate some of his adventures ere he returns to Plymouth. I will take thy arm, Timothy, for my foot is paining me, and--".

He was about to tell that he had been wounded, but not wishing to alarm his companions, or perhaps a little ashamed of being defeated by a mere footpad, he kept the matter to himself.

"What do I hear?" exclaimed Jacob Hartop. "Didst thou not speak the name of Francis Drake--Sir Francis Drake? God be thanked! Then he is still alive, eh? And hath risen in the world since the days when he and I were shipmates? Sir Francis, forsooth! Well, he deserveth all the honours that a prince can bestow upon him. Right well do I mind the time when we were at Nombre de Dios. Ah! that was a time, my masters. But 'tis a long story. Whither are ye bound for?"

"We go to the manor-house of Modbury," answered Timothy.

"Ah! I know it well," returned Hartop as he trudged along the lane at Gilbert's right side. "'Tis my Lord Champernoun's place, and I doubt not you will both be in his lordship's service--pages in his household belike?" He did not wait for an answer to his last remark, but went on with a cheerfulness that was surprising in an old man; a man, moreover, who had just been robbed of all his worldly wealth: "Prithee, have they mended the old bell that hung in the little turret above the stables? Ha, ha! 'Twas I that broke it, flinging a stone at a blue jay that was perched upon the weather-vane. Many are the apples and pears I stole from out the orchard there; ay, and the rabbits and pheasants I trapped i' the woods! His lordship had a Flanders mare by name Nancy, that he was wont to ride upon to London. She had a white star betwixt her eyes, and a most shrewish temper withal. None could ride her but his lordship and William Stevens; though 'tis true she would willingly eat an apple o' mornings from out my lady's hand. Is the animal still as full of her tricks as she used to be?"

"'Tis like enough that the animal is in her grave these twenty years, Master Hartop," said Timothy, smiling to himself at the old man's memory of a time long past.

"Ay, like enough, like enough," mused the old man. "Time doth slip by with astonishing speed--though, indeed, 'twas laggard enough in the galleys and in the prison of Cadiz."

"I pray you tarry a moment," interposed Gilbert, suppressing a groan of pain. "I cannot walk so fast. My ankle hurts me at every step. I beg you haul off my boot, Tim, to give me a few moments' ease. Come closer, Master Hartop, and let me lean on your shoulder."

The old man obeyed, while Timothy went down on his knees in the mud and tried, but with little success, to remove the offending boot. He was interrupted by a sudden cry from Hartop.

"God bless us all, what is this?" the mariner cried, running his hand over Gilbert's right arm. "There be surely more wet here than hath come from a few flakes of snow. Why, 'tis blood, my master, 'tis blood! Thou art wounded!"

"Wounded?" echoed Timothy rising excitedly to his feet. "Oh, my master! Wherefore didst thou not tell us of this before? Where is the wound?"

"The fellow's rapier pierced me in the arm," explained Gilbert in a faint voice, as he leaned yet more helplessly on Hartop's shoulder. "But 'tis not much, I do assure you."

Timothy Trollops pressed his open palm upon the lad's sleeve, and, finding it wet from shoulder to wrist, "Not much?" he cried. "Why, thou'rt scarce able to stand, so much blood hath streamed from thee! Thou'rt well-nigh fainting! Had I but known of this at the time, I warrant me the scoundrel should not have escaped so easily. Wouldst know the man again, my master?"

"Not I," murmured Gilbert in a yet fainter voice. "I saw not his face."

"Nor I neither," added Jacob Hartop. "'Twas too dark to see aught but their shadowy forms, even if mine own face had not been half-smothered under my cloak. But they are clean gone now you'll be saying, and 'twill avail us little to go in search of them or to tarry here any longer while one of us is sore wounded." He put his arms about Gilbert and added: "Heave thyself on to my back, young friend, and I will carry thee. 'Tis but a small distance if I mind aright from here to Thomas Southam's mill, where peradventure we shall get help, and a horse to carry thee further."

Timothy gently pushed the old man aside.

"Thy memory is like to an old almanack, Master Hartop," he said, "and of as little value for present use. Southam's mill was burnt to the ground a good ten years ago, and hath never yet been rebuilt."

"What?" cried Hartop, and, as if the information concerning the mill had staggered him, he stepped backward, allowing Gilbert Oglander to slip from his grasp. "Burnt to the ground!" he repeated. "Then prithee, young sir, what hath become of the miller's fair young daughter Betty--Betty Southam that promised to wait for me when I sailed away to foreign lands, ay, and to marry me when I should come back with the fortune that I meant to gain for her? What hath become of her, I say?"

Timothy lifted Gilbert upon his knee and held him there while he answered:

"Betty Southam? Ah! I knew her when I was a little child. But I do protest she was then neither young nor fair. As to what hath become of her, 'tis soon told, Master Hartop. She was found lying dead one winter's morning in Beddington Woods."

"Alas!" cried Hartop. "Then was my song indeed prophetic, for all my travel hath in very truth been 'forlorn and waste'."

"Listen!" interrupted Timothy. "Hear you not the sound of horses' feet upon the road? 'Tis surely our robbers, riding away."

"I hear them plainly," returned Hartop. "There be two horses, as I judge by the sound. And, far from retreating, they are coming nearer and nearer. I pray Heaven that they be friends who will help us!"

Gilbert Oglander had now somewhat recovered from his faintness, and with the help of his two companions he limped to the side of the road, where, sitting on the edge of the ditch, he at length succeeded in pulling off his boot, for his ankle had been badly sprained and was already somewhat swollen.

The three waited there in silence at the roadside until the horsemen whom they had heard approaching came within a few yards of them, when Timothy Trollope stepped out in front of them, and waving his hands aloft called aloud to them to halt. His call was not needed, however, for the horsemen had already drawn rein.

"So-ho!" cried one of them as he unsheathed his sword, and spurring his horse again he drove the animal on as if to run Timothy down. "We have caught you, you rascals, have we?" he cried with an oath. "We shall teach you better than to go about a-pillaging of honest folks' farmyards and carrying off their ducks and hens! 'Tis Plymouth gaol that shall be your lodging to-night if I be not vastly in error." He turned to his companion, "Now, Jake," he ordered, "look you to those two in the ditch there! See that they escape not into the wood."

Timothy sprang forward and seized the horse's bridle.

"Hold hard, Bob Harvey," he cried, addressing the rider. "Have a care where y'are driving your horse. Can you not see who we are, man? Here be Master Oglander, bleeding and well-nigh dead of a great sword-cut given him by a thief of a footpad but a few minutes since."

"Od's life, Master Tim, is't yourself then?" cried the horseman drawing back. "Faith, lad, I had nearly run you through. What bringeth you here at such an hour? And Master Gilbert wounded, say you?--and by footpads? Prithee, how many were there? I'll be sworn 'twas the self-same gang that we are now seeking."

"There were three of them," answered Timothy. "And after robbing this poor old man here and wounding Master Gilbert they made off through Beddington Woods."

"Ay, three there were at the Manor Farm. I warrant me, they are the same lot," declared Bob Harvey. Then he added, turning to his follower, "Come, Jake, we may catch them yet if so be we gallop round to the other road." And he dug his spurs into his horse's side.

"Stay!" cried Timothy, gripping the reins. "Thou'dst best dismount, Bob, and give up thy horse to the young master; or else take him up beside thee and ride home with him. As for the thieves, or poachers, or whatever they be, Jake Thew may continue the chase alone."

"As you will, Master Timothy," returned Harvey; "but methinks Master Gilbert had better get up in front of me. 'Tis an ill-mannered animal this, and hard to manage."

So Gilbert Oglander mounted on the horse's back and rode slowly homeward, while the second horseman galloped off alone along the lane in the direction of the town. Timothy intended to go home afoot, running all the way by his master's side, but ere he started off he turned to Jacob Hartop.

"And now, Master Hartop," said he, "prithee, where go you to-night? Hast got a home in these parts?"

Jacob was silent for some moments. At last he said:

"I had meant to rest myself at Southam's Mill, where they have daily expected me these twenty years and more. But if, as you say, the mill hath been burnt down, why, then, there is not a house in the land that I can call my home. Howbeit, I doubt not I shall find goodly shelter under the lee of some friendly haystack. 'Twill not be the first, no, nor the hundredth time that I have slept in the open air. And believe me, my master, he is a happy man who hath none to thank for his food and shelter saving only his God."

"I do perceive that thou art an easily contented mortal," remarked Timothy with a ring of sympathy in his voice.

"Privation hath made me so," returned Hartop.

"Nevertheless," pursued Tim, "you will, so please you, think no more of the haystack, but come on to the manor of Modbury; for sure I am that Master Oglander would blame me most severely were I to suffer you to go adrift like a lost creature."

Hartop answered very seriously and firmly: "Were there no other house in all England, my master, I should still refuse to take shelter in the manor of Modbury."

"And wherefore?" asked Timothy in surprise.

"Because," returned the old mariner, "it is in that same house that my bitterest enemy doth live--Jasper Oglander to wit."

"Pooh!" rejoined Timothy. "Jasper Oglander is dead these many years."

"Not so," declared Hartop. "You, indeed, and many others may believe him dead. But in this matter, at the least, I make no mistake; for hark ye, my friend, Jasper Oglander is as much alive at this moment as you or I. You and your young friend may not have known him--how should you?--but 'twas he whom you saw this very day coming ashore from the ship _Pearl_; he and his wife and his son. If you should see him again,--as I doubt not you will ere many hours be past,--you shall know him by the token that he hath an old knife-cut across his cheek: a cut that was dealt to him by one whom he sought to treacherously murder."