# Once a Week (magazine)/Series 1/Volume 1/A good fight - Part 11

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A Good Fight.
BY CHARLES READE.
The bow was raised and the deadly arrow steadily drawn to its head, when at that moment an active figure leaped on Ghysbrecht from behind so swiftly, it was like a hawk swooping on a pigeon. A shirt went over the Burgomaster, and, in a turn of the hand, his head was muffled in it, and he was whirled from his seat and fell heavily upon the ground, where he lay groaning with terror; and Gerard jumped down after him.
“Hist, Martin! Martin!”
Martin and Margaret came out, the former open-mouthed, crying, “Now fly! fly! while they are all in the thicket; we are saved!”
At this crisis, when safety seemed at hand, as fate would have it, Margaret, who had borne up so bravely till now, began to succumb, partly from loss of blood.
“Oh, my beloved! fly!” she gasped. “Leave me, for I am faint!”
“No! no!” screamed Gerard. “Death together, or safety! Ah! the mule! mount her; you, and I’ll—”
In a moment Martin was on the mule, and Gerard raised the fainting girl in his arms and placed her on the saddle, and relieved Martin of his bow.
“Help! treason! murder! murder!” shrieked Ghysbrecht, rising on his hams.
“Silence, cur!” roared Gerard, and trode him down again by the throat as men crush an adder. “Now, have you got her firm? Then fly! for our lives!”
But even as the mule, urged suddenly by Martin’s heel, scattered the flints with his hind hoofs ere he got into a canter, and even as Gerard withdrew his foot from Ghysbrecht’s throat to run, Dierich Brower and his five men, who had come back for orders, and heard the ​Burgomaster’s cries, burst roaring out of the coppice on them.
CHAPTER XXV.
Speech is the familiar vent of human thoughts: but there are emotions so simple and overpowering, that they rush out not in words, but in eloquent sounds. At such moments man seems to lose his characteristics, and to be merely one of the higher animals; for these when greatly agitated ejaculate, though they cannot speak.
There was something terrible and truly animal both in the roar of triumph with which the pursuers burst out of the thicket on our fugitives, and in the sharp cry of terror with which these latter darted away. The pursuers’ hands clutched the empty air, scarce two feet behind them, as they fled for life. Confused for a moment, like lions that miss their spring, Dierich and his men let Gerard and the mule put ten yards between them. Then they flew after with uplifted weapons. They were sure of catching them; for this was not the first time the parties had measured speed. In the open ground they had gained visibly on the trio this morning, and now, at last, it was a fair race again, to be settled by speed alone. A hundred yards were covered in no time. Yet still there remained these ten yards between the pursuers and the pursued.
This increase of speed since the morning puzzled Dierich Brower. But I think I understand it. When three run in company, the pace is that of the slowest of the three. From Peter’s house to the edge of the forest Gerard ran Margaret’s pace; but now he ran his own; for the mule was fleet, and could have left them all far behind. Moreover, youth and chaste living began to tell. Daylight grew imperceptibly between the hunted ones and the hunters. Then Dierich made a desperate effort, and gained two yards; but in a few seconds Gerard had stolen them quickly back. The pursuers began to curse.
Martin heard, and his face lighted up. “Courage, Gerard! courage, brave lad! they are straggling.”
It was so. Dierich was now headed by one of his men, and another dropped into the rear altogether.
They came to a rising ground, not sharp, but long; and here youth, and grit, and honest living, told more than ever.
Ere he reached the top, Dierich’s forty years weighed him down like forty bullets. “Our cake is dough,” he gasped. “Take him dead, if you can’t alive:” and he left off running, and followed at a foot’s pace. Jorian Ketel tailed off next; and then another, and so, one by one, Gerard ran them all to a stand still, except one who kept on staunch as a blood-hound, though losing ground every minute. His name, if I am not mistaken, was Eric Wouverman. Followed by this one, they came to a rise in the wood, shorter, but much steeper than the last.
“Hand on mane!” cried Martin.
Gerard obeyed, and the mule helped him up the hill faster even than he was running before.
At the sight of this manœuvre, Dierich’s man lost heart, and, being now full eighty yards behind Gerard, and rather more than that in advance of his nearest comrade, he pulled up short, and in obedience to Dierich’s order, took down his crossbow, levelled it deliberately, and just as the trio were sinking out of sight, over the crest of the hill, sent the bolt whizzing among them.
There was a cry of dismay; and, next moment, as if a thunderbolt had fallen on them, they were all lying on the ground, mule and all.
CHAPTER XXVI.
The effect was so sudden and magical, that the shooter himself was stupified for a moment. Then he hailed his companions to join him in effecting the capture, and himself set off up the hill: when up rose the figure of Martin Wittenhaagen with a bent bow in his hand. Eric Wouverman no sooner saw him in this attitude, than he darted behind a tree, and made himself as small as possible. Martin’s skill with that weapon was well-known, and the slain dog was a keen reminder of it.
Wouverman peered round the bark cautiously: there was the arrow’s point still aimed at him. He saw it shine. He dared not move from his shelter.
When he had been at peep-bo some minutes, his companions came up, and then, with a scornful laugh, Martin vanished, and presently was heard to ride off on the mule.
All the men ran up together. The high ground commanded a view of a narrow but almost interminable glade. They saw Gerard and Margaret running along at a prodigious distance; they looked like gnats; and Martin galloping after them ventre à terre.
The hunters were outwitted as well as outrun. A few words will explain Martin’s conduct. We arrive at causes by noting coincidences: yet, now and then, coincidences are deceitful. As we have all seen a hare tumble over a briar just as the gun went off, and so raise expectations, then dash them to earth by scudding away untouched, so the Burgomaster’s mule put her foot in a rabbit hole, at or about the time the cross-bow bolt whizzed innocuous over her head: she fell and threw both her riders. Gerard caught Margaret, but was carried down by her weight and impetus. Thus in a moment the soil was strewed with dramatis personæ.
The docile mule was up again directly, and stood trembling. Martin was next, and looking round found out there was but one in pursuit; on this he made the young lovers fly on foot, while he checked the enemy as I have recorded.
He now galloped after his companions, and when after a long race, he caught them, he instantly put Gerard and Margaret on the mule, and ran by their side, till his breath failed, then took his turn to ride, and so in rotation. Thus the runner was always fresh, and long ere they relaxed their speed, all sound and trace of them was hopelessly lost to Dierich and his men. These latter went crestfallen back to look after their chief.
CHAPTER XXVII
Life and liberty, while safe, are little thought of: for why?—they are matters of course. Endangered, they are rated at their real value. In this, too, they are like sunshine, whose beauty ​Page:Once a Week Jul - Dec 1859.pdf/224 ​Page:Once a Week Jul - Dec 1859.pdf/225 ​Page:Once a Week Jul - Dec 1859.pdf/226