by Robert Louis Stevenson
Saranac Lake, April 8, 1888.
Note: Look up difficult words at The Free Dictionary.
It was near six in the May morning when Dick began to ride down into the fen upon his homeward way. The sky was all blue; the jolly wind blew loud and steady; the windmill-sails were spinning; and the willows over all the fen rippling and whitening like a field of corn. He had been all night in the saddle, but his heart was good and his body sound, and he rode merrily.
The path went down and down into the marsh, till he lost sight of all the neighbouring landmarks but Kettley windmill on the knoll behind him, and the extreme top of Tunstall Forest far before. On either hand there were great fields of blowing reeds and willows, pools of water shaking in the wind, and treacherous bogs, as green as emerald, to tempt and to betray the traveller. The path lay almost straight through the morass. It was already very ancient; its foundation had been laid by Roman soldiery; in the lapse of ages much of it had sunk, and every here and there, for a few hundred yards, it lay submerged below the stagnant waters of the fen.
About a mile from Kettley, Dick came to one such break in the plain line of causeway, where the reeds and willows grew dispersedly like little islands and confused the eye. The gap, besides, was more than usually long; it was a place where any stranger might come readily to mischief; and Dick, with something like a pang of regret, thought of the lad whom he had so imperfectly directed. As for himself, one look backward to where the windmill sails were turning black against the blue of heaven—one look forward to the high ground of Tunstall Forest, and he was sufficiently directed and held straight on, the water washing to his horse’s knees, as safe as on a highway.
Half-way across, and when he had already sighted the path rising high and dry upon the farther side, he was aware of a great splashing on his right, and saw a grey horse, sunk to its belly in the mud, and still spasmodically struggling. Instantly, as though it had divined the neighbourhood of help, the poor beast began to neigh most piercingly. It rolled, meanwhile, a blood-shot eye, insane with terror; and as it sprawled wallowing in the quag, clouds of stinging insects rose and buzzed about it in the air.
“Oh no!” thought Dick, “can the poor lad have perished? There is his horse, for certain—a brave grey! Comrade, if you cry to me so piteously, I will do all man can to help you. I will not let you lie there to drown by inches!”
And he made ready his crossbow, and put a quarrel through the creature’s head.
Dick rode on after this act of rugged mercy, somewhat sobered in spirit, and looking closely about him for any sign of his less happy predecessor in the way. “I would I had dared to tell him further,” he thought; “for I fear he has miscarried in the slough.”
And just as he was so thinking, a voice cried upon his name from the causeway side, and, looking over his shoulder, he saw the lad’s face peering from a clump of reeds.
“Are you there?” he said, reining in. “You lay so close among the reeds that I had passed you by. I saw your horse sinking in the mire, and put him from his agony; which, by my word! if you had been a more merciful rider, you would had done yourself. But come out of your hiding. I will not trouble you.”
“Good boy, I have no arms, nor skill to use them if I had,” replied the other, stepping out upon the pathway.
“Why call me ‘boy’?” cried Dick. “You are not, I think the elder of us.”
“Good Master Shelton,” said the other, “please forgive me. I have not the least intention to offend. Rather I would in every way beg your gentleness and favour, for I am now worse bested than ever, having lost my way, my cloak, and my poor horse. To have a riding-rod and spurs, and never a horse to sit upon! And before all,” he added, looking ruefully upon his clothes—“before all, to be so sorrily stained!”
“Tut!” cried Dick. “Would you mind a ducking? Blood of wound or dust of travel—that’s a man’s adornment.”
“Then, I like him better plain,” observed the lad. “But, please, what shall I do? Please, good Master Richard, help me with your good counsel. If I come not safe to Holywood, I am undone.”
“No,” said Dick, dismounting, “I will give more than counsel. Take my horse, and I will run awhile, and when I am weary we shall change again, that so, riding and running, both may go the speedier.”
So the change was made, and they went forward as briskly as they durst on the uneven causeway, Dick with his hand upon the other’s knee.
“What is your name?” asked Dick.
“Call me John Matcham,” replied the lad.
“And why are you going to Holywood?” Dick continued.
“I seek sanctuary from a man that would oppress me,” was the answer. “The good Abbot of Holywood is a strong pillar to the weak.”
“And how did you come to be with Sir Daniel, Master Matcham?” pursued Dick.
“No,” cried the other, “by the abuse of force! He took me by violence from my own place; dressed me in these weeds; rode with me till my heart was sick; gibed me till I could have wept; and when certain of my friends pursued, thinking to have me back, claps me in the rear to stand their shot! I was even grazed in the right foot, and walk but lamely. There shall come a day between us; he shall smart for all!”
“Would you shoot at the moon with a hand-gun?” said Dick. “Sir Daniel is a valiant knight, and has a hand of iron. If he guessed I had made or meddled with your flight, it would go sore with me.”
“Yes, poor boy,” returned the other, “you are his ward, I know it. By the same token, so am I, or so he says; or else he has bought my marriage—I don’t rightly know which; but it is some handle to oppress me by.”
“Boy again!” said Dick.
“Shall I call you girl, good Richard?” asked Matcham.
“Never a girl for me,” returned Dick. “I stay away from the lot of them!”
“You speak boyishly,” said the other. “You think more of them than you pretend.”
“Not I,” said Dick, stoutly. “They come not in my mind. A plague of them, say I! Give me to hunt and to fight and to feast, and to live with jolly foresters. I never heard of a maid yet that was for any service, save one only; and she was burned for a witch and the wearing of men’s clothes in spite of nature.”
Master Matcham crossed himself with fervour, and appeared to pray.
“What are you doing?” Dick inquired.
“I pray for her spirit,” answered the other, with a somewhat troubled voice.
“For a witch’s spirit?” Dick cried. “But pray for her, if you will; she was the best woman in Europe, was this Joan of Arc. Old Appleyard the archer ran from her, he said, as if she had been Mahammond. Yes, she was a brave woman.”
“Well, but, good Master Richard,” resumed Matcham, “if you like maids so little, you are no true natural man; for God made them twain by intention, and brought true love into the world, to be man’s hope and woman’s comfort.”
“Faugh!” said Dick. “You are a milk-sopping baby, so to harp on women. If you think I am not a true man, get down upon the path, and whether at fists, back-sword, or bow and arrow, I will prove my manhood on your body.”
“No, I am no fighter,” said Matcham, eagerly. “I mean no tittle of offence. I meant but pleasantry. And if I talk of women, it is because I heard you were to marry.”
“I to marry!” Dick exclaimed. “Well, it is the first I hear of it. And with whom was I to marry?”
“One Joan Sedley,” replied Matcham, colouring. “It was Sir Daniel’s doing; he has money to gain upon both sides; and, indeed, I have heard the poor girl bemoaning herself pitifully of the match. It seems she is of your mind, or else she doesn’t like the bridegroom.”
“Well! marriage is like death, it comes to all,” said Dick, with resignation. “And she bemoaned herself? See there how shuttle-witted are these girls: to bemoan herself before she had seen me! Do I bemoan myself? Not I. If I be to marry, I will marry dry-eyed! But if you know her, please tell me, of what favour is she? fair or foul? And is she grumpy or pleasant?”
“What does it matters?” said Matcham. “If you are to marry, you can but marry. What matters foul or fair? These are but toys. You are no milksop, Master Richard; you will wed with dry eyes, anyhow.”
“It is well said,” replied Shelton.
“Your lady wife is likely to have a pleasant lord,” said Matcham.
“She shall have the lord Heaven made her for,” returned Dick. “I suppose there are worse as well as better.”
“Ah, the poor woman!” cried the other.
“And why so poor?” asked Dick.
“To wed a man of wood,” replied his companion. “O me, for a wooden husband!”
“I think I be a man of wood, indeed,” said Dick, “to trudge afoot the while you ride my horse; but it is good wood, I suppose.”
“Good Dick, forgive me,” cried the other. “You are the best heart in England; I but laughed. Forgive me now, sweet Dick.”
“They were only fool words,” returned Dick, a little embarrassed by his companion’s warmth. “No harm is done. I am not touchy, praise the saints.”
And at that moment the wind, which was blowing straight behind them as they went, brought them the rough flourish of Sir Daniel’s trumpeter.
“Listen!” said Dick, “the trumpet sounds.”
“Yes,” said Matcham, “they have found my flight, and now I am unhorsed!” and he became pale as death.
“What are you afraid of?” returned Dick. “You have a long start, and we are near the ferry. And it is I that am unhorsed.”
“I am afraid I shall be taken!” cried the fugitive. “Dick, kind Dick, please help me but a little!”
“What’s wrong now?” said Dick. “I think I help you very patently. But my heart is sorry for so spiritless a fellow! And see here, John Matcham—if John Matcham is your name—I, Richard Shelton, no matter what happens, will see you safe in Holywood. The saints so do to me again if I default you. Come, pick me up a good heart, Sir White-face. The way gets better here; spur the horse. Go faster! faster! Don’t mind me; I can run like a deer.”
So, with the horse trotting hard, and Dick running easily alongside, they crossed the remainder of the fen, and came out upon the banks of the river by the ferryman’s hut.