# The Splendid Spur/Chapter 7

pp. 92–105.

### CHAPTER VII.
#### I FIND A COMRADE.

But I must go back a little and tell you what befell in my expedition.
I had scarce trudged out of sight of my friends, down the hill, when it struck me that my footprints in the snow were in the last degree dangerous to them, and might lead Settle and his crew straight to the dingle. Here was a fix. I stood for some minutes nonpluss'd, when above the stillness of the wood (for the wind had dropp'd) a faint sound as of running water caught my ear, and help'd me to an idea.
The sound seem'd to come from my left. Turning aside I made across the hill toward it, and after two hundred paces or so came on a tiny brook, not two feet across, that gush'd down the slope with a quite considerable chatter and impatience. The bed of it was mainly earth, with here and there a large stone or root to catch the toe: so that, as I stepped into the water and began to thread my way down between the banks of snow, 'twas necessary to look carefully to my steps.
Here and there the brook fetch'd a leap down a sharper declivity, or shot over a hanging stone: but, save for the wetting I took in these places, my progress was easy enough. I must have waded in this manner for half a mile, keeping the least possible noise, when at an angle ahead I spied a clearing among the pines, and to the right of the stream, on the very verge, a hut of logs standing, with a woodrick behind it.
'Twas a low building, but somewhat long, and I guess'd it to be, in summer-time, a habitation for the wood-cutters. But what surpris'd me was to hear a dull, moaning noise, very regular and disquieting, that sounded from the interior of the hut. I listen'd, and hit on the explication. 'Twas the sound of snoring.
Drawing nearer with caution, I noticed, in that end of the hut which stood over the stream, a gap, or window hole. The sound issued through this like the whirring of a dozen looms. “He must be an astonishing fellow,” thought I, “that can snore in this fashion. I'll have a peep before I wake him.” I waded down till I stood under the sill, put both hands upon it, and pulling myself up quiet as a mouse, stuck my face in at the window—and then very nearly sat back into the brook for fright.
For I had gazed straight down into the upturn'd faces of Captain Settle and his gang.
How long I stood there, with the water rushing past my ankles and my body turning from cold to hot, and back again, I cannot tell you. But 'twas until, hearing no pause in the sleepers' chorus, I found courage for another peep: and that must have been some time.
There were but six rascals beside the Captain (so that Jacques must have died hard, thought I), and such a raffle of arms and legs and swollen upturn'd faces as they made I defy you to picture. For they were pack'd close as herrings; and the hut was fill'd up with their horses, ready saddled, and rubbing shoulder to loin, so narrow was the room. It needed the open window to give them air: and even so, 'twas not over-fresh inside.
I had no mind to stay: but before leaving found myself in the way of playing these villains a pretty trick. To right and left of the window, above their heads, extended two rude shelves that now were heap'd with what I conjectured to be the spoils of the larder of the “Three Cups.” Holding my breath and thrusting my head and shoulders into the room, I ran my hand along and was quickly possess'd of a boil'd ham, two capons, a loaf, the half of a cold pie, and a basket holding three dozen eggs. All these prizes I filched one by one, with infinite caution.
I was gently pulling the basket through the window hole, when I heard one of the crew yawn and stretch himself in his sleep. So, determining to risk no more, I quietly pack'd the basket, slung it on my right arm, and with the ham grasp'd by the knuckle in my left, made my way up the stream.
'Twas thus laden that I enter'd the dingle, and came on the sad sight therein. I set down the ham as a thing to be asham'd of, and bar'd my head. The girl lifted her face, and turning, all white and tragical, saw me.
“My father is dead, sir.”
I stoop'd and pil'd a heap of fresh snow over the blood stains. There was no intent in this but to hide the pity that chok'd me. She had still to hear about her brother, Anthony. Turning, as by a sudden thought, I took her hand. She look'd into my eyes, and her own filled with tears. 'Twas the human touch that loosen'd their flow, I think: and sinking down again beside her father, she wept her fill.
“Mistress Killigrew,” I said, as soon as the first violence of her tears was abated, “I have still some news that is ill hearing. Your enemies are encamp'd in the woods, about a half mile below this”—and with that I told my story.
“They have done their worst, sir.”
“No.”
She looked at me with a question on her lip.
Said I, “you must believe me yet a short while without questioning.”
Considering for a moment, she nodded. “You have a right, sir, to be trusted, tho' I know not so much as your name. Then we must stay close in hiding?” she added very sensibly, tho' with the last word her voice trail'd off, and she began again to weep.
But in time, having cover'd the dead baronet's body with sprays of the wither'd bracken, I drew her to a little distance and prevail'd on her to nibble a crust of the loaf. Now, all this while, it must be remembered, I was in my shirt-sleeves, and the weather bitter cold. Which at length her sorrow allow'd her to notice.
“Why, you are shivering, sore!” she said, and running, drew my buff-coat from her father's body, and held it out to me.
“Indeed,” I answer'd, “I was thinking of another expedition to warm my blood.” And promising to be back in half an hour, I follow'd down my former tracks toward the stream.
Within twenty minutes I was back, running and well-nigh shouting with joy.
“Come!” I cried to her, “come and see for yourself!”
What had happen'd was this:—Wading cautiously down the brook, I had cause suddenly to prick up my ears and come to a halt. 'Twas the muffled tramp of hoofs that I heard, and creeping a bit further, I caught a glimpse, beyond the hut, of a horse and rider disappearing down the woods. He was the last of the party, as I guess'd from the sound of voices and jingling of bits further down the slope. Advancing on the hut with more boldness, I found it deserted. I scrambled up on the bank and round to the entrance. The snow before it was trampled and sullied by the footmarks of men and horses: and as I noted this, came Settle's voice calling up the slope—
“Jerry—Jerry Toy!”
A nearer voice hail'd in answer.
“Where's Reuben?”
“Coming, Captain—close behind!”
“Curse him for a loitering idiot! We've wasted time enough, as 'tis,” called back the Captain. “How in thunder is a man to find the road out of this cursed wood?”
“Straight on, Cap'n—you can't miss it,” shouted another voice, not two gunshots below.
A volcano of oaths pour'd up from Settle. I did not wait for the end of them: but ran back for Mistress Delia.
Together we descended to the hut. By this time the voices had faded away in distance. Yet to make sure that the rascals had really departed, we follow'd their tracks for some way, beside the stream; and suddenly came to a halt with cries of joyful surprise.
The brook had led us to a point where, over a stony fall veil'd with brown bracken, it plunged into a narrow ravine. Standing on the lip, where the water took a smoother glide before leaping, we saw the line of the ravine mark'd by a rift in the pines, and through this a slice of the country that lay below. 'Twas a level plain, well-watered, and dotted here and there with houses. A range of wooded hills clos'd the view, and towards them a broad road wound gently, till the eye lost it at their base. All this was plain enough, in spite of the snow that cover'd the landscape. For the sun had burst out above, and the few flakes that still fell looked black against his brilliance and the dazzling country below.
But what caus'd our joy was to see, along the road, a small cavalcade moving away from us, with many bright glances of light and colour, as their steel-caps and sashes took the sunshine—a pretty sight, and the prettier because it meant our present deliverance.
The girl beside me gave a cry of delight, then sigh'd; and after a minute began to walk back toward the hut: where I left her, and ran up-hill for the basket and ham. On my return, I found her examining a heap of rusty tools that, it seem'd, she had found on a shelf of the building. 'Twas no light help to the good fellowship that afterwards united us, that from the first I could read her thoughts often without words; and for this reason, that her eyes were as candid as the noonday.
So now I answer'd her aloud—
“This afternoon we may venture down to the plain, where no doubt we shall find a clergyman to sell us a patch of holy ground——”
“Holy ground?” She look'd at me awhile and shook her head. “I am not of your religion,” she said.
“And your father?”
“I think no man ever discovered my father's religion. Perhaps there was none to discover: but he was no bad father”—she steadied her voice and went on:—“He would prefer the hill-side to your 'holy ground.'”
So, an hour later, I delv'd his grave in the frosty earth, close by the spot where he lay. Somehow, I shiver'd all the while, and had a cruel shooting pain in my wound that was like to have mastered me before the task was ended. But I managed to lower the body softly into the hole and to cover it reverently from sight: and afterwards stood leaning on my spade and feeling very light in the head, while the girl knelt and pray'd for her father's soul.
And the picture of her as she knelt is the last I remember, till I open'd my eyes, and was amazed to find myself on my back, and staring up at darkness.
“What has happen'd?”
“I think you are very ill,” said a voice: “can you lean on me, and reach the hut?”
“Why, yes: that is, I think so. Why is everything dark?”
“The sun has been down for hours. You have been in a swoon first, and then talk'd—oh, such nonsense! Shame on me, to let you catch this chill!”
She help'd me to my feet and steadied me: and how we reached the hut I cannot tell you. It took more than one weary hour, as I now know; but, at the time, hours and minutes were one to me.
In that hut I lay four nights and four days, between ague-fit and fever. And that is all the account I can give of the time, save that, on the second day, the girl left me alone in the hut and descended to the plain, where, after asking at many cottages for a physician, she was forced to be content with an old woman reputed to be amazingly well skill'd in herbs and medicines; whom, after a day's trial, she turn'd out of doors. On the fourth day, fearing for my life, she made another descent, and coming to a wayside tavern, purchas'd a pint of aqua vitæ, carried it back, and mix'd a potion that threw me into a profuse sweat. The same evening I sat up, a sound man.
Indeed, so thoroughly was I recover'd that, waking early next morning, and finding my sweet nurse asleep from sheer weariness, in a corner of the hut, I stagger'd up from my bed of dried bracken, and out into the pure air. Rare it was to stand and drink it in like wine. A footstep arous'd me. 'Twas Mistress Delia: and turning, I held out my hand.
“Now this is famous,” said she: “a day or two will see you as good a man as ever.”
“A day or two? To-morrow at latest, I shall make trial to start.” I noted a sudden change on her face, and added: “Indeed, you must hear my reasons before setting me down for an ingrate;” and told her of the King's letter that I carried. “I hoped that for a while our ways might lie together,” said I; and broke off, for she was looking me earnestly in the face.
“Sir, as you know, my brother Anthony was to have met me—nay, for pity's sake, turn not your face away! I have guess'd—the sword you carry—I mark'd it. Sir, be merciful, and tell me!”
I led her a little aside to the foot of a tall pine; and there, tho' it wrung my heart, told her all; and left her to wrestle with this final sorrow. She was so tender a thing to be stricken thus, that I who had dealt the blow crept back to the hut, covering my eyes. In an hour's time I look'd out. She was gone.
At nightfall she return'd, white with grief and fatigue; yet I was glad to see her eyes red and swol'n with weeping. Throughout our supper she kept silence; but when 'twas over, look'd up and spoke in a steady tone—
“Sir, I have a favor to ask, and must risk being held importunate——”
“From you to me,” I put in, “all talk of favors had best be dropp'd.”
“No—listen. If ever it befel you to lose father or mother or dearly loved friend, you will know how the anguish stuns—Oh sir! to-day the sun seem'd fallen out of heaven, and I a blind creature left groping in the void. Indeed, sir, 'tis no wonder: I had a father, brother, and servant ready to die for me—three hearts to love and lean on: and to-day they are gone.”
I would have spoken, but she held up a hand.
“Now when you spoke of Anthony—a dear lad!—I lay for some time dazed with grief. By little and little, as the truth grew plainer, the pain grew also past bearing. I stood up and stagger'd into the woods to escape it. I went fast and straight, heeding nothing, for at first my senses were all confus'd: but in a while the walking clear'd my wits, and I could think: and thinking, I could weep: and having wept, could fortify my heart. Here is the upshot, sir—tho' 'tis held immodest for a maid to ask even far less of a man. We are both bound for Cornwall—you on an honourable mission, I for my father's estate of Gleys, wherefrom (as your tale proves) some unseen hands are thrusting me. Alike we carry our lives in our hands. You must go forward: I may not go back. For from a King who cannot right his own affairs there is little hope; and in Cornwall I have surer friends than he. Therefore take me, sir—take me for a comrade! Am I sad? Do you fear a weary journey? I will smile—laugh—sing—put sorrow behind me. I will contrive a thousand ways to cheat the milestones. At the first hint of tears, discard me, and go your way with no prick of conscience. Only try me—oh, the shame of speaking thus!”
Her voice had grown more rapid toward the close: and now, breaking off, she put both hands to cover her face, that was hot with blushes. I went over and took them in mine:
“You have made me the blithest man alive,” said I.
She drew back a pace with a frighten'd look, and would have pull'd her hands away.
“Because,” I went on quickly, “you have paid me this high compliment, to trust me. Proud was I to listen to you; and merrily will the miles pass with you for comrade. And so I say—Mistress Killigrew, take me for your servant.”
To my extreme discomposure, as I dropp'd her hands, her eyes were twinkling with laughter.
“Dear now; I see a dull prospect ahead if we use these long titles!”
“But——”
“Indeed, sir, please yourself. Only as I intend to call you 'Jack' perhaps 'Delia' will be more of a piece than 'Mistress Killigrew.'” She dropp'd me a mock curtsey. “And now, Jack, be a good boy, and hitch me this quilt across the hut. I bought it yesterday at a cottage below here——”
She ended the sentence with the prettiest blush imaginable; and so, having fix'd her screen, we shook hands on our comradeship, and wish'd each other good-night.