CHAPTER II

I AM ATTACKED IN THE WOODS

It was late in the afternoon when I left the armorer’s. The sky was covered with low dark clouds. A fine rain fell which cut through the skin with the keenness of a sharp knife.

Our house (where I lived alone with my brother André) lay above a mile from the village around a long bend in the road—a track I rarely traveled, for I knew a shorter path through the woods. So with my brother’s armor slung lightly over my shoulder I started briskly on my way.

I was without a serious thought. The birds, in the face of the oncoming night, were settled in their nests. The branches of the trees began to drip moisture over my face and neck. The grass and the underbrush were a bit soggy under my feet, but even with that the lightness of my heart prompted me to whistle a little tune.

I had gone about half way. The thoughts of a bright fire and warmth were uppermost in my brain. Save for the dripping of the rain the woods were as silent as an empty tomb.

A sound startled me—a swish like the hurry of a deer or a wild-boar scurrying through the weeds. I stopped and peered carefully through the gathering gloom. The sound was repeated, directly in front of me. Quite instinctively I backed away to seek the protection of the nearest tree, and waited. But for a second all I could hear was the thumping of my heart against my ribs.

After a little I began to feel that my fear was founded on imagination, so with cautious steps I slowly ventured once more ahead. I had not gone five strides when the swish came again to my ears, this time more distinct and very near. I was about to swerve to my left to avoid the danger that might be threatening me, when a rough-looking fellow stepped out of the semi-darkness and made towards me.

As well as I could distinguish, he was of the commoner type, clad in the wooden shoes of the peasantry and with a coat and breeches of some black material almost threadbare, crumpled and soiled from being lived and slept in. His hair hung out in clumps from under the edges of an old cap and around his neck was knotted a ragged scarf.

I caught all this in a flash, you may be sure. But what attracted me most was neither his clothes nor even his threatening aspect, for I started with terror when I caught a glimpse of a dagger that he held grasped in his right hand.

I stopped and drew a long breath. But he came on with the weapon raised on a level with his shoulder, and with his heavy eyes glaring at me as though I were a wild animal that was to be stricken to death. I shifted to the one side and he shifted likewise with me. I saw him moisten his lips and half-shut his eyes. With what quickness I could, I sprang further on and dodged safe for the moment behind a tree.

“My name is La Mar!” I called. “I am Henri La Mar. I live in that house over there at the edge of the woods.” I stopped long enough for him to understand. Then, “Surely you have made a mistake,” I cried still louder. “You must be waiting here for someone else!”

He lunged stupidly after me. The breath was coming from between his lips in a kind of a wheeze. At the same time he uttered in a deep growl, “La Mar. The old Count of Gramont—the rest of them”—and something which sounded like an oath, but which I was not able to understand.

We were within five feet of each other. All the time he held the dagger on high always ready to strike. It flashed through my senses that I was dallying long enough, so with a jump I flew away from my tree and made deeper into the woods.

But it seemed that I had run into a trap. I had not gone twice the length of my body when a second fellow, dressed the same as the first, confronted me. If you had stood the two together you could not have told the one from the other. And this one, too, had a dagger like the first and stood with his legs spread out to block my way.

I was as good as dead. I came to a stop as though I had struck a stone wall and then veered over to the one side as I did before. At the same instant I bent low and ran as fast as I could in the hope that, if my assailant made a lunge at me, there might be some chance that it would only be a glancing blow and do me little harm.

I had calculated too rashly on the sloth of my enemy. Indeed he was as sure of me as a hunter is of game that is already brought to earth. As I passed, he took one leap after me. His hand came down with the speed of an arrow and the next thing I knew I felt a jar in the middle of my back that sent the stars before my eyes and flattened me on my stomach on the ground. Then a shriek echoed among the trees that sent the blood curdling through my veins and after that the woods were still again.

I was partly dazed by my fall. To tell you the truth, by every right I ought to have been killed. But the armor which I had slung so lightly over my shoulder had saved me. When the blow struck, the point of the dagger caught in the meshes of the twisted links. The weapon was a straight knife with no cross piece to form a protection for the hand. The impact was so sudden and so unexpected that my enemy lost his grip on the haft. His hand slipped down the blade and, as I learned afterwards, was cut along the fingers and the palm. It was the pain of it that made him cry out and to that the frenzy of it caused him to take to his heels and run away.

There was danger on every side of me. I had no time to breathe a word of thanks for my deliverance but got up as quickly as I could and made forward in the direction I was bent on. Then came my third surprise. I had started at a fairly good gait when an arrow whistled past my face and buried itself in the trunk of a great tree. My flesh crept from the very terror of my situation. There was one thing to do, I thought, and that was to take the bridle in my teeth and make the best of it.

I plunged on ahead recklessly. I am sure that I was as white as a ghost. It is one thing to have an enemy in front of you with whom you are matched on even terms. It is another to be beset by lurking foes who are able to strike unseen and who have every advantage in position and in weapons. But even at that the spirit of desperation was strong within me, for I was resolved to use my last speck of strength to worm myself through the woods and to make for home.

But my resolutions were nipped in the bud before I had fairly formed them. I was just getting into full career when another arrow passed my face, this time closer than the first and whistled on among the trees. But I did not stop. I bent my head low to the ground. I grasped the piece of mail more firmly in my hand. I was breathing hard, but more from the strain I was under than from actual labor. Three strides further and a third arrow buried itself in the turf straight before me and snapped with a little click.

I could not help looking down for my face was directed towards the ground. To my amazement, even in the gloom of the woods, I spied a piece of parchment tied in a hard knot on the haft of the missile.

“A message,” I thought. “Is it a warning from a friend? Or a threat from a hidden foe?”

As quick as a flash I stooped and snatched it open. There I read in letters scrawled as coarsely and as rudely as a child would write the words:

GO BACK BY THE ROAD

I trembled a little, I must confess. Whether from friend or foe, it was wisest to obey. If I insisted on going on ahead, I knew I would surely be killed. If I were to go back—well, there was a ray of hope.

I turned. I was as much in the hands of Fate as ever was any man alive. This time I did not run but kept on at a steady gait. At every step I was in expectation of some fresh attack, to be confronted by one of the two men who had assailed me, or by a knife darting through the air, or even by an arrow. But to my surprise the woods were as calm as when I first entered them. The rain dripped slowly from the overhanging branches and the light wind fanned and cooled my heated cheeks.

I was soon past the place where I had met my first foe. To my imagination it was like a tale I had heard of a superstitious person’s passing a place haunted by a ghost. My eyes were on the alert. At any second I expected a fresh attack. I thought I heard a low groan. I let the thought pass as though it were the promptings of fear. Then I heard it again and with it some words that I could not understand. I looked about and there to my amazement I saw the fellow who had first threatened me with his back to a tree. A strong cord held his wrists tied together, while another wrapped around his body held him firmly fastened against the trunk.

At the sight of me he cleared his throat.

“Come here!” he commanded.

“What do you want?” I asked.

“Will you loose these bonds?” he said.

“I know when I’m safe,” I replied. “I’ll do nothing of the kind.”

He growled something under his breath.

“If you do,” he went on half coaxingly and half in a threat, “I’ll tell you a story that’s worth while.”

“You’ve told me enough already,” said I, and started on my way.

But he was insistent.

“Wait,” he commanded once more. “Will you give me a mouthful of water, then?”

“There’s enough dripping from the trees,” I shot back at him. “Turn your face up and you’ll easily slacken your thirst.”

He growled deeper than before but he realized that I was not to be taken as lightly as he thought. I went on. There was no more interruption. The fellow with the wounded hand might have been lurking somewhere in the neighborhood. He might even be standing behind a tree. But as far as I was concerned, he did not appear and in quicker time than I had come in, I was out of the woods and on the road that led in a roundabout way to my home.

I breathed a great sigh of relief when I tramped up the gravel walk that led to the house. With no ado I pushed open the front door and entered. In the great hall there were two men, the one my brother André and the old Count of Gramont who lived in the castle on the hill. They had just finished lighting the candles. There was no fire in the open hearth and the room was cold and chilled with the damp. The old Count was pacing nervously up and down the floor muttering to himself in his deep rolling tones. My brother’s face was as white as chalk and lines of worry lay across his forehead. He was standing at the long oaken table that stood in the centre of the room winding a piece of linen about his lower arm. I did not speak for at the first glance I noticed that, as he wound, the blood kept oozing through the bandages from the place where he had been wounded.