# The Splendid Spur/Chapter 6

pp. 78–91.

### CHAPTER VI.
#### THE FLIGHT IN THE PINE WOOD.

By the sound of their steps I guess'd one or two of these dozen rascals to be pretty far gone in drink, and afterwards found this to be the case. I look'd round. Sir Deakin had pick'd up the lamp and was mixing his bowl of punch, humming to himself without the least concern—
“Vivre en tout cas
C'est le grand soulas”—
with a glance at his daughter's face, that was white to the lips, but firmly set.
“Hand me the nutmeg yonder,” he said, and then, “why, daughter, what's this?—a trembling hand?”
And all the while the footsteps were coming up.
There was a loud knock on the door.
“Come in!” call'd Sir Deakin.
At this, Jacques, who stood ready for battle by the entrance, wheeled round, shot a look at his master, and dropping his point, made a sign to me to do the same. The door was thrust rudely open, and Captain Settle, his hat cock'd over one eye, and sham drunkenness in his gait, lurch'd into the room, with the whole villainous crew behind him, huddled on the threshold. Jacques and I stepp'd quietly back, so as to cover the girl.
“Would you mind waiting a moment?” inquir'd Sir Deakin, without looking up, but rubbing the nutmeg calmly up and down the grater: “a fraction too much, and the whole punch will be spoil'd.”
It took the Captain aback, and he came to a stand, eyeing us, who look'd back at him without saying a word. And this discomposed him still further.
There was a minute during which the two parties could hear each other's breathing. Sir Deakin set down the nutmeg, wiped his thin white fingers on a napkin, and address'd the Captain sweetly—
“Before asking your business, sir, I would beg you and your company to taste this liquor, which, in the court of France”—the old gentleman took a sip from the mixing ladle—“has had the extreme honour to be pronounced divine.” He smack'd his lips, and rising to his feet, let his right hand rest on the silver foot of the lamp as he bowed to the Captain.
Captain Settle's bravado was plainly oozing away before this polite audacity: and seeing Sir Deakin taste the punch, he pull'd off his cap in a shamefaced manner and sat down by the table with a word of thanks.
“Come in, sirs—come in!” call'd the old gentleman; “and follow your friend's example. 'Twill be a compliment to make me mix another bowl when this is finish'd.” He stepped around the table to welcome them, still resting his hand on the lamp, as if for steadiness. I saw his eye twinkle as they shuffled in and stood around the chair where the Captain was seated.
“Jacques, bring glasses from the cupboard yonder! And, Delia, fetch up some chairs for our guests—no, sirs, pray do not move!”
He had waved his hand lightly to the door as he turned to us: and in an instant the intention as well as the bright success of this comedy flash'd upon me. There was now no one between us and the stairs, and as for Sir Deakin himself, he had already taken the step of putting the table's width between him and his guests.
I touch'd the girl's arm, and we made as if to fetch a couple of chairs that stood against the wainscot by the door. As we did so, Sir Deakin push'd the punch bowl forward under the Captain's nose.
“Smell, sir,” he cried airily, “and report to your friends on the foretaste.”
Settle's nose hung over the steaming compound. With a swift pass of the hand, the old gentleman caught up the lamp and had shaken a drop of burning oil into the bowl. A great blaze leapt to the ceiling. There was a howl—a scream of pain; and as I push'd Mistress Delia through the doorway and out to the head of the stairs, I caught a backward glimpse of Sir Deakin rushing after us, with one of the stoutest among the robbers at his heels.
“Downstairs, for your life!” I whisper'd to the girl, and turning, as her father tumbled past me, let his pursuer run on my sword, as on a spit. At the same instant, another blade pass'd through the fellow transversely, and Jacques stood beside me, with his back to the lintel.
As we pull'd our swords out and the man dropp'd, I had a brief view into the room, where now the blazing liquid ran off the table in a stream. Settle, stamping with agony, had his palms press'd against his scorch'd eyelids. The fat landlord, in trying to beat out the flames, had increased them by upsetting two bottles of aqua vitæ, and was dancing about with three fingers in his mouth. The rest stood for the most part dumbfounder'd: but Black Dick had his pistol lifted.
Jacques and I sprang out for the landing and round the doorway. Between the flash and the report I felt a sudden scrape, as of a red-hot wire, across my left thigh and just above the knee.
“Tenez, camarade,” said Jacques' voice in my ear; “à moi la porte—à vous le maître, là-bas:” and he pointed down the staircase, where, by the glare of the conflagration that beat past us, I saw the figures of Sir Deakin and his daughter standing.
“But how can you keep the door against a dozen?”
The Frenchman shrugg'd his shoulders with a smile—
“Mais-comme ça!”
For at this moment came a rush of footsteps within the room. I saw a fat paunch thrusting past us, a quiet pass of steel, and the landlord was wallowing on his face across the threshold. Jacques' teeth snapp'd together as he stood ready for another victim: and as the fellows within the room tumbled back, he motion'd me to leave him.
I sprang from his side, and catching the rail of the staircase, reach'd the foot in a couple of bounds.
“Hurry!” I cried, and caught the old baronet by the hand. His daughter took the other, and between us we hurried him across the passage for the kitchen door.
Within, the chambermaid was on her knees by the settle, her face and apron of the same hue. I saw she was incapable of helping, and hasten'd across the stone floor, and out toward the back entrance.
A stream of icy wind blew in our faces as we stepp'd over the threshold. The girl and I bent our heads to it, and stumbling, tripping, and panting, pull'd Sir Deakin with us out into the cold air.
The yard was no longer dark. In the room above some one had push'd the casement open, letting in the wind: and by this 'twas very evident the room was on fire. Indeed, the curtains had caught, and as we ran, a pennon of flame shot out over our heads, licking the thatch. In the glare of it the out-buildings and the yard gate stood clearly out from the night. I heard the trampling of feet, the sound of Settle's voice shouting an order, and then a dismal yell and clash of steel as we flung open the gate.
“Jacques!” scream'd the old gentleman: “my poor Jacques! Those dogs will mangle him with their cut and thrust——”
'Twas very singular and sad, but as if in answer to Sir Deakin's cry, we heard the brave fellow's voice; and a famous shout it must have been to reach us over the roaring of the flames—
“Mon maître-mon maître!” he call'd twice, and then “Sauve toi!” in a fainter voice, yet clear. And after that only a racket of shouts and outcries reach'd us. Without doubt the villains had overpower'd and slain this brave servant. In spite of our peril (for they would be after us at once), 'twas all we could do to drag the old man from the gate and up the road: and as he went he wept like a child.
After about fifty yards, we turn'd in at a gate, and began to cut across a field: for I hop'd thus not only to baffle pursuit for a while, but also to gain the wood that we saw dimly ahead. It reach'd to the top of the hill, and I knew not how far beyond: and as I was reflecting that there lay our chance of safety, I heard the inn-door below burst open with loud cries, and the sound of footsteps running up the road after us.
Moreover, to complete our fix, the clouds that had been scurrying across the moon's face, now for a minute left a clear interval of sky about her: so that right in our course there lay a great patch brilliantly lit, whereon our figures could be spied at once by anyone glancing into the field. Also, it grew evident that Sir Deakin's late agility was but a short and sudden triumph of will over body: for his poor crooked legs began to trail and lag sadly. So turning sharp about, we struck for the hedge's shadow, and there pull'd him down in a dry ditch, and lay with a hand on his mouth to stifle his ejaculations, while we ourselves held our breathing.
The runners came up the road, pausing for a moment by the gate. I heard it creak, and saw two or three dark forms enter the field—the remainder tearing on up the road with a great clatter of boots.
“Alas, my poor Jacques!” moan'd Sir Deakin: “and to be butcher'd so, that never in his days kill'd a man but as if he lov'd him!”
“Sir,” I whisper'd harshly, “if you keep this noise I must gag you.” And with that he was silent for awhile.
There was a thick tangle of brambles in the ditch where we lay: and to this we owe our lives. For one of the men, coming our way, pass'd within two yards of us, with the flat of his sword beating the growth over our heads.
“Reu-ben! Reuben Gedges!” call'd a voice by the gate.
The fellow turn'd; and peeping between the bramble twigs, I saw the moonlight glittering on his blade. A narrow, light-hair'd man he was, with a weak chin: and since then I have paid him out for the fright he gave us.
“What's the coil?” he shouted back.
“The stable-roof's ablaze—for the Lord's sake come and save the hosses!”
He strode back, and in a minute the field was clear. Creeping out with caution, I grew aware of two mournful facts: first, that the stable was indeed afire, as I perceiv'd by standing on tiptoe and looking over the hedge; and second, that my knee was hurt by Black Dick's bullet. The muscles had stiffened while we were crouching, and now pain'd me badly. Yet I kept it to myself as we started off again to run.
But at the stile that, at the top of the field, led into the woods, I pull'd up—
“Sorry I am to say it, but you must go on without me.”
“O—oh!” cried the girl.
“'Tis for your safety. See, I leave a trail of blood behind me, so that when day rises they will track us easily.”
And sure enough, even by the moon, 'twas easy to trace the dark spots on the grass and earth beside the stile. My left boot, too, was full of blood.
She was silent for awhile. Down in the valley we could hear the screams of the poor horses. The light of the flames lit up the pine-trunks about us to a bright scarlet.
“Sir, you hold our gratitude cheaply.”
She unwound the kerchief from her neck, and making me sit on the stile, bound up my knee skillfully, twisting a short stick in the bandage to stop the bleeding.
I thank'd her, and we hurried on into the depths of the wood, treading silently on the deep carpet of pine-needles. The ground rose steeply all the way: and all the way, tho' the light grew feebler, the roar and outcries in the valley follow'd us.
Towards the hill's summit the trees were sparser. Looking upward, I saw that the sky had grown thickly overcast. We cross'd the ridge, and after a minute or so were in thick cover again.
'Twas here that Sir Deakin's strength gave out. Almost without warning, he sank down between our hands, and in a second was taken with that hateful cough, that once already this night had frightened me for his life.
“Ah, ah!” he groaned, between the spasms, “I'm not fit—I'm not fit for it!” and was taken again, and roll'd about barking, so that I fear'd the sound would bring all Settle's gang on our heels. “I'm not fit for it!” he repeated, as the cough left him, and he lay back helpless, among the pine-needles.
Now, I understood his words to bear on his unfitness for death, and judg'd them very decent and properly spoken: and took occasion to hint this in my attempts to console him.
“Why, bless the boy!” he cried, sitting up and staring, “for what d'ye think I'm unsuited?”
“Why, to die, sir—to be sure!”
“Holy Mother!” he regarded me with surprise, contempt and pity, all together: “was ever such a dunderhead! If ever man were fit to die, I am he—and that's just my reasonable complaint. Heart alive! 'tis unfit to live I am, tied to this absurd body!”
I suppose my attitude express'd my lack of comprehension, for he lifted a finger and went on—
“Tell me—can you eat beef, and drink beer, and enjoy them?”
“Why, yes.”
“And fight—hey? and kiss a pretty girl, and be glad you've done it? Dear, dear, how I do hate a fool and a fool's pity! Lift me up and carry me a step. This night's work has kill'd me: I feel it in my lungs. 'Tis a pity, too; for I was just beginning to enjoy it.”
I lifted him as I would a babe, and off we set again, my teeth shutting tight on the pain of my hurt. And presently, coming to a little dingle, about half a mile down the hill-side, well hid with dead bracken and blackberry bushes, I consulted with the girl. The place was well shelter'd from the wind that rock'd the tree-tops, and I fear'd to go much further, for we might come on open country at any moment and so double our peril. It seem'd best, therefore, to lay the old gentleman snugly in the bottom of this dingle and wait for day. And with my buff-coat, and a heap of dried leaves, I made him fairly easy, reserving my cloak to wrap about Mistress Delia's fair neck and shoulders. But against this at first she protested.
“For how are you to manage?” she ask'd.
“I shall tramp up and down, and keep watch,” answer'd I, strewing a couch for her beside her father: “and 'tis but fair exchange for the kerchief you gave me from your own throat.”
At last I persuaded her, and she crept close to her father, and under the edge of the buff-coat for warmth. There was abundance of dry bracken in the dingle, and with this and some handfuls of pine needles, I cover'd them over, and left them to find what sleep they might.
For two hours and more after this, I hobbled to and fro near them, as well as my wound would allow, looking up at the sky through the pine-tops, and listening to the sobbing of the wind. Now and then I would swing my arms for warmth, and breathe on my fingers, that were sorely benumb'd; and all the while kept my ears on the alert, but heard nothing.
'Twas, as I said, something over two hours after, that I felt a soft cold touch, and then another, like kisses on my forehead. I put up my hand, and looked up again at the sky. As I did so, the girl gave a long sigh, and awoke from her doze—
“Sure, I must have dropp'd asleep,” she said, opening her eyes, and spying my shadow above her: “has aught happened?”
“Aye,” replied I, “something is happening that will wipe out our traces and my bloody track.”
“And what is that?”
“Snow: see, 'tis falling fast.”
She bent over, and listen'd to her father's breathing.
“'Twill kill him,” she said simply.
I pull'd some more fronds of the bracken to cover them both. She thank'd me, and offer'd to relieve me in my watch: which I refus'd. And indeed, by lying down I should have caught my death, very likely.
The big flakes drifted down between the pines: till, as the moon paled, the ground about me was carpeted all in white, with the foliage black as ink above it. Time after time, as I tramp'd to and fro, I paus'd to brush the fresh-forming heap from the sleepers' coverlet, and shake it gently from the tresses of the girl's hair. The old man's face was covered completely by the buff-coat: but his breathing was calm and regular as any child's.
Day dawn'd. Awaking Mistress Delia, I ask'd her to keep watch for a time, while I went off to explore. She crept out from her bed with a little shiver of disgust.
“Run about,” I advis'd, “and keep the blood stirring.”
She nodded: and looking back, as I strode down the hill, I saw her moving about quickly, swinging her arms, and only pausing to wave a hand to me for goodspeed.
'Twas an hour before I return'd: and plenty I had to tell. Only at the entrance to the dingle the words failed from off my tongue. The old gentleman lay as he had lain throughout the night. But the bracken had been toss'd aside, and the girl was kneeling over him. I drew near, my step not arousing her. Sir Deakin's face was pale and calm: but on the snow that had gather'd by his head, lay a red streak of blood. 'Twas from his lungs, and he was quite dead.