CERTAINLY the farmer had the look of a bruiser. Moreover he had a robust confidence in his own powers, and this was expressed by the grin of satisfaction upon his face. A number of the farm hands soon came up, attracted by the never-failing charms of a bout of fisticuffs.
Gervase followed the example of his adversary by discarding his doublet and rolling up his shirt-sleeves. He was far slighter of build and cast in a mold altogether more delicate than the farmer. Still he was a very likely looking fellow.
As became a gentleman of his time, his education had been liberal. Martial and manly exercises had played their part in it. Even in such a simple affair as a set-to with fists he was not without instruction from professors of the craft. Therefore he had a modest hope that he would be able to take care of himself, even if his foe was a man of greater power and experience.
Gervase gave Anne his doublet to hold. She, alas! was terribly distressed when she saw what was going to happen. But there was no help for it. If Gervase did not fight the farmer he must submit to the hands of the law.
Her natural woman’s instinct was to run away and hide while the battle was fought. But her staunchness forbade such a course. She mustered all her resolution in order to remain where she was. Gervase might have sore need of her help before he was through with a business so grievous.
Although the blows turned her sick, she forced herself to stand by the wall of the cowhouse and with wildly beating heart watched the progress of the fight. The might of the farmer’s arms was terrific. Happily he was a man past fifty; he carried far more of flesh than when he was in his prime as a fighter; and thus was Gervase given an opportunity to ward or avoid the worst of his blows. Well it was for him that he was able to do this, for in his prime, which was twenty-five years ago, Gideon Partlet had been a famous fighter. Even now much of the old skill remained; but the muscles were not so supple and he could not get about as craftily as of yore.
All the same the farmer brought such a zest to his fighting, he delivered such a rain of blows, and there was such a power behind them, that had not Gervase been uncommonly quick with his hands and feet it must have gone hard with him.
The farmer’s great fists would have dealt out terrible punishment had the milk-stealer been unable to parry them. Even as it was, and in spite of all that he could summon of youth, activity and skill, Gervase did not get off scot free. To the huge delight of the farm hands who were shouting loud encouragement to their master, the milk-stealer received one blow on the side of the jaw that shook him terribly, while another caught the young man on the nose and drew his blood. But this was slight punishment compared with what might have been, for had Gervase been wholly without experience he had paid heavy toll for his felony.
Now Gervase was enough of a man to accept and perhaps even to desire punishment for his offence. He could not help feeling that Master Gideon Partlet had received a deep wrong at his hands, so that he felt at first no very great animosity toward the farmer. But if the truth must be told, the crack on the jaw shook considerably this chivalrous desire to make payment in kind for his felony; the starting of the blood rendered it in imminent danger; and when presently he was so hard pressed that his right eye was like to be closed, the noble sense of equity of which all men do well to be jealous, was thrown to the wind.
It seemed then to grow clear to the mind of Gervase that Master Gideon Partlet somehow lacked a sense of proportion. The buffets on jaw and nose were in his opinion quite as much as the milk was worth. The assault on the right eye was usury. But the farmer did not share this view. Once blooded, he fought more furiously than ever. Moreover he accompanied each blow with a savage grunt and did all he knew to pin the younger and lighter man against the wall of the byre.
The distress of poor Anne was dreadful. Brave as she was, after a few moments she could endure the sight no more. Shuddering, she hid her eyes in the doublet of her champion.
Would the fight never cease? She began to fear that the farmer would kill Gervase. No longer dare she look at the cruel spectacle, but the ever-recurring sound of the blows chilled and sickened her. At last there came a loud cry from the onlookers, and then the dread sounds ceased. When she ventured to look she made the discovery that a very strange thing had happened.
The farmer was prone on his back in the mire of his own stackyard. He lay motionless; and Gervase and one of the hands were bending over him and were in the act of raising him up.
“Oh, is he dead?” gasped Anne.
“Not he,” said Gervase cheerfully. He besought her to bring a little water from the pump in the milk-pail.
By the time this had been brought the farmer was sitting up rather ruefully in the straw of the yard. Gervase supported him with a shoulder; but soon finding that Gideon Partlet was little the worse for the blow on the point of the jaw that had leveled him to mother earth, the young man proceeded to clear the blood from his own face by dipping it in the bucket.
The farmer watched the process with an air of grim approval. “Here’s my hand, young man,” he said when Gervase’s countenance had been put in some sort of order. “You are a lad of mettle and a pretty fighter. By God, young fellow, I didn’t think ye kept such a clip as that in your shirt.”
The farmer seemed to think it was the finest jest in the world that one so wise and crafty as himself should have been careless enough to lay himself open to such a blow. And, as became one who had enjoyed many triumphs in his youth, he was too good a fellow not to be able to laugh at his own expense. “Tell me, young man, where did ye learn that buffet? A thing like that don’t come by nature.”
“I had it of Christopher Tattersall, the Yorkshire champion,” said Gervase modestly.
“Did ye so?” said the farmer, with a kind of enthusiasm. “Well, it’s the prettiest buffet I’ve smelt this thirty year.”
“I would not have used it had you not forced me to,” said Gervase.
“And if I’d known you were keeping it in your sleeve I’d not have held ye so light, young fellow, and you can lay to that.”
The farmer spoke with a kind of grim admiration, as became an old warrior who had dealt many a shrewd knock in his time. He bore no malice, either for the rape of his milk or for the blow to his pride. Besides, much was to be forgiven a lad of the true mettle.
“If you and your young doxey will step as far as the kitchen,” said he, “perhaps the good wife can find ye a bite o’ breakfast apiece.”
In spite of the quantity of the new milk they had consumed Gervase and Anne needed no second invitation.
The good wife, to be sure, viewed them at first with little in the way of favor. Certainly neither was very reputable to look upon. Fragments of straw and flakes of dried mud were clinging to their clothes, and their faces had not met soap and water for many hours. Also the face of Gervase was sadly swollen and discolored.
Still, in spite of the good wife’s misgivings she gave them a delicious breakfast of collops, hot cakes and ale. Never in their lives had they had such a repast. And the farmer, for all that they had stolen his milk, was fain to heap up their platters with the large generosity of one who has been a first-rate fighter in his youth.
“I know not who you be, young fellow,” said he. “You have an air of quality, although you may be none the less a cutthroat for that. Perhaps you are Tat Barcey, the gentleman prig. Still, I care not who you are, but by God’s life you are a mighty pretty fighter. Wife, give the young rogue another slice o’ the cake and give some more swipes to the young doxey. Let it never be said that Gideon Partlet knows not how to honor a stout and crafty fighter.”
Thus it was that an hour hence they went forth furnished royally. High of heart, they took the road again. A night’s rest and a square meal are wonder-working things. For a time they were no longer the hunted fugitives of the previous day. Girt by the spirit of youth and braced by good cheer, they struck across the country into the Derbyshire woods. Here their path was spread with primroses and all manner of spring delights. The bursting buds caressed their faces, the odor of wild flowers was in their nostrils, a thousand golden-throated voices filled their ears.
In the high-hearted freedom of the moment they forgot their tragic peril. This was life in its rapture, life in its fulness. Soon Gervase began to sing.
In the merry month of May,
In a morn by break of day,
Forth I walked by the wood-side
When as May was in his pride.
The green aisles re-echoed his voice. Presently they rested on a moss-grown bank with the great river flowing far beneath them.
There I spied all alone
Phillida and Coridon.
They looked in the ardent eyes of one another utterly heedless of what was to come. In this joyous morning of spring they were determined to forget the horror that held them in thrall. Let the morrow bring what it might, in this glorious hour they were determined to rejoice. For the moment let the moment suffice! They would give themselves up to the rapture of this little hour.
Why have a care? Their pursuers were outrun. They had the whole wide world in which to hide—the whole wide world, which was full to the brim with glorious adventure. They asked nothing beyond the comradeship of each other. Let chance continue to serve them for their modest need.
For their luncheon they took a young turnip out of a field. But this did not prove a very satisfying bill of fare. Alas! they soon began to crave an ampler meal. Nor did this craving grow less when early in the afternoon the sun went behind a cloud and presently a cool wind arose accompanied by the threat of rain.
Turnips are doubtless excellent things, but they are little enough upon which to maintain the fires of youth. Thus were they driven, at whatever risk to their lives, to strike out again toward the haunts of men. Again was Gervase consumed by a desire to barter the silver-hilted dagger for a flageolet by means of which he reckoned to get pence, or failing that, he hoped to turn the superfluous weapon into current coin of the realm.
They passed through several hamlets, but in none did the opportunity arise of fulfilling these desires. Moreover charity was lacking, so that by sundown a bitter hunger took them in its grip. To add to their woes they were again growing footsore and there had come a change in the weather. The wind had a sting in it and the heavy gray clouds were flying low.
Anne, however, was the bravest companion. She trudged along patiently by the side of Gervase and nothing would make her admit that she was hungry or weary or afraid. But had it not been for the solace of each other’s company they must have given in long before they did. Each was sustained by the other’s valor. Yet with night at hand, supperless and without a roof for their heads, heaven knew what would befall them now.
At last, when the cold twilight had come down on the woods and fields, they felt no longer able to go on. They rested awhile by the side of the road. Gervase nestled Anne’s cheek against his coat, and it seemed like ice.
“Poor soul,” he whispered, and could hardly restrain his tears.
It was quite dark by the time they had gathered the strength to continue their journey. At first their limbs were so stiff that they could hardly walk. But the bitter wind, the heavy darkness and the threat of rain spurred them cruelly. Their strides grew shorter and shorter, they fell sick at heart, yet they did not complain of one another or of Providence.
On and on they trudged until they were like to drop. Exactly what they hoped to find in that inhospitable night was more than they could have told. Perhaps some hovel or shepherd’s hut or a byre with cows in it was the bourne of their desire. But the weary miles passed by and none of these things came to them.
After a time they turned from the hard and bleak high road, which gave no protection from the merciless wind, again into the fields. They felt now that they could not walk another mile. Utterly weary and dispirited, they still clung to the slender hope of finding shelter in a wood wherein to pass the remainder of the night. But the country now was flat and cheerless. It contained little else than low-lying marsh-land fringed with stunted willow-trees.
Disappointed of even this small crumb of solace, they crept at last under a hedge which in the total darkness was the best protection they could find. And grateful were they for it. At least they were saved from the wind and rain. But fatigue galled them in every bone and they were most bitterly hungry.
They were too miserable to think of sleep. For the sake of warmth they lay very close together, but little enough there was of it that crept into their veins. But never for a moment did their courage fail. They were sustained with a sense of miraculous deliverance from infinite perils. In body they were fainting, but in ardor of spirit they were unconquered still. God who had given them so much would continue to hold them in His care.
Almost as if in answer to their faith they saw suddenly a light quite near. It seemed to be no more than a couple of fields away. Yet again, tortured by hope, they painfully gathered their weariness and dragged their worn-out bodies toward this fitful and unexpected beacon. Alas! the two fields became four and yet the light seemed to be no nearer. But once afoot in its quest, they stumbled on miserably through the driving rain, in the teeth of the icy wind, over wet furrows and through close-set hedges. On and on they stumbled, till at last a moment came when they were like to fall in sheer fatigue. But Providence was with them still. For in this last dire extremity they were rewarded by the sight of that which they had come so far to find.