Men of Iron, Howard Pyle [classic books for 7th graders TXT] 📗
- Author: Howard Pyle
Book online «Men of Iron, Howard Pyle [classic books for 7th graders TXT] 📗». Author Howard Pyle
Myles repeated the stroke.
“Pest!” cried Sir James. “Thou art too slow by a week. Here, strike thou the blow at me.”
Myles hesitated. Sir James held a stout staff in his hand, but otherwise he was unarmed.
“Strike, I say!” said Sir James. “What stayest thou for? Art afeard?”
It was Myles's answer that set the seal of individuality upon him. “Nay,” said he, boldly, “I am not afeard. I fear not thee nor any man!” So saying, he delivered the stroke at Sir James with might and main. It was met with a jarring blow that made his wrist and arm tingle, and the next instant he received a stroke upon the bascinet that caused his ears to ring and the sparks to dance and fly before his eyes.
“Pardee!” said Sir James, grimly. “An I had had a mace in my hand, I would have knocked thy cockerel brains out that time. Thou mayst take that blow for answering me so pertly. And now we are quits. Now strike me the stroke again an thou art not afeard.”
Myles's eyes watered in spite of himself, and he shut the lids tight to wink the dimness away. Nevertheless he spoke up undauntedly as before. “Aye, marry, will I strike it again,” said he; and this time he was able to recover guard quickly enough to turn Sir James's blow with his shield, instead of receiving it upon his head.
“So!” said Sir James. “Now mind thee of this, that when thou strikest that lower cut at the legs, recover thyself more quickly. Now, then, strike me it at the pel.”
Gascoyne and other of the lads who were just then lying stretched out upon the grass beneath, a tree at the edge of the open court where stood the pels, were interested spectators of the whole scene. Not one of them in their memory had heard Sir James so answered face to face as Myles had answered him, and, after all, perhaps the lad himself would not have done so had he been longer a resident in the squires' quarters at Devlen.
“By 'r Lady! thou art a cool blade, Myles,” said Gascoyne, as they marched back to the armory again. “Never heard I one bespeak Sir James as thou hast done this day.”
“And, after all,” said another of the young squires, “old Bruin was not so ill-pleased, methinks. That was a shrewd blow he fetched thee on the crown, Falworth. Marry, I would not have had it on my own skull for a silver penny.”
CHAPTER 7 So little does it take to make a body's reputation.
That night all the squires' quarters buzzed with the story of how the new boy, Falworth, had answered Sir James Lee to his face without fear, and had exchanged blows with him hand to hand. Walter Blunt himself was moved to some show of interest.
“What said he to thee, Falworth?” asked he.
“He said naught,” said Myles, brusquely. “He only sought to show me how to recover from the under cut.”
“It is passing strange that he should take so much notice of thee as to exchange blows with thee with his own hand. Haply thou art either very quick or parlous slow at arms.”
“It is quick that he is,” said Gascoyne, speaking up in his friend's behalf. “For the second time that Falworth delivered the stroke, Sir James could not reach him to return; so I saw with mine own eyes.”
But that very sterling independence that had brought Myles so creditably through this adventure was certain to embroil him with the rude, half-savage lads about him, some of whom, especially among the bachelors, were his superiors as well in age as in skill and training. As said before, the bachelors had enforced from the younger boys a fagging sort of attendance on their various personal needs, and it was upon this point that Myles first came to grief. As it chanced, several days passed before any demand was made upon him for service to the heads of the squirehood, but when that demand was made, the bachelors were very quick to see that the boy who was bold enough to speak up to Sir James Lee was not likely to be a willing fag for them.
“I tell thee, Francis,” he said, as Gascoyne and he talked over the matter one day—“I tell thee I will never serve them. Prithee, what shame can be fouler than to do such menial service, saving for one's rightful Lord?”
“Marry!” quoth Gascoyne; “I reason not of shame at this or that. All I know is that others serve them who are haply as good and maybe better than I be, and that if I do not serve them I get knocked i' th' head therefore, which same goeth soothly against my stomach.”
“I judge not for thee,” said Myles. “Thou art used to these castle ways, but only I know that I will not serve them, though they be thirty against me instead of thirteen.”
“Then thou art a fool,” said Gascoyne, dryly.
Now in this matter of service there was one thing above all others that stirred Myles Falworth's ill-liking. The winter before he had come to Devlen, Walter Blunt, who was somewhat of a Sybarite in his way, and who had a repugnance to bathing in the general tank in the open armory court in frosty weather, had had Dick Carpenter build a trough in the corner of the dormitory for the use of the bachelors, and every morning it was the duty of two of the younger squires to bring three pails of water to fill this private tank for the use of the head esquires. It was seeing two of his fellow-esquires fetching and carrying this water that Myles disliked so heartily, and every morning his bile was stirred anew at the sight.
“Sooner would I die than yield to such vile service,” said he.
He did not know how soon his protestations would be put to the test.
One night—it was a week or two after Myles had come to Devlen—Blunt was called to attend the Earl at livery. The livery was the last meal of the day, and was served with great pomp and ceremony about nine o'clock at night to the head of the house as he lay in bed. Curfew had not yet rung, and the lads in the squires' quarters were still wrestling and sparring and romping boisterously in and out around the long row of rude cots in the great dormitory as they made ready for the night. Six or eight flaring links in wrought-iron brackets that stood out from the wall threw a great ruddy glare through the barrack-like room—a light of all others to romp by. Myles and Gascoyne were engaged in defending the passage-way between their two cots against the attack of three other lads, and Myles held his sheepskin coverlet rolled up into a ball and balanced in his hand, ready for launching at the head of one of the others so soon as it should rise from
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