The Hot Swamp, R. M. Ballantyne [free novel 24 TXT] 📗
- Author: R. M. Ballantyne
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“Is this ‘little delicate thing’ as beautiful as my sister describes her to be?” asked Bladud, somewhat amused by his father’s tone and manner.
“Ay, that she is,” answered the king. “Beautiful enough to set not a few of my young men by the ears. Did you not see her on the platform at the games—or were you too much taken up with the scowling looks of Gunrig?”
“I saw the figure of a young woman,” answered the prince, “but she kept a shawl so close round her head that I failed to see her face. As to Gunrig, I did not think it worth my while to mind him at all, so I saw not whether his looks were scowling or pleased.”
“Ha! boy—he gave you some trouble, notwithstanding.”
“He has gone away in anger at present, however, so we will let him be till he returns for another fight.”
Gunrig, meanwhile, having reached his town or village, went straight to the hut in which his mother dwelt and laid his troubles before her. She was a calm, thoughtful woman, very unlike her passionate son.
“It is a bad business,” she remarked, after the chief had described the situation to her, and was striding up and down the little room with his hands behind his back, “and will require much care in management, for King Hudibras, as you know, is very fierce when roused, and although he is somewhat afraid of you, he is like to be roused to anger when he comes to understand that you have jilted his daughter.”
“But I have not jilted her,” said Gunrig, stopping abruptly in his walk, and looking down upon his parent. “That ass Bladud won her, and although he does turn out to be her brother, that does not interfere with his right to break off the engagement if so disposed. Besides, I do not want to wed the princess now. I have quite changed my mind.”
“Why have you changed your mind, my son?”
“Because I never cared for her much; and since I went to visit her father I have seen another girl who is far more beautiful; far more clever; more winning, in every way.”
The woman looked sharply at the flushed countenance of her son.
“You love her?” she asked.
“Ay, that do I, as I never loved woman before, and, truly, as I think I never shall love again.”
“Then you must get her to wife, my son, for there is no cure for love.”
“Oh, yes, there is, mother,” was the light reply of the chief, as he recommenced to pace the floor. “Death is a pretty sure and sharp cure for love.”
“Surely you would not kill yourself because of a girl?”
Gunrig burst into a loud laugh, and said, “Nay, truly, but death may take the girl, or death may take me—for, as you know, there is plenty of fighting among the tribes, and my day will surely come, sooner or later. In either case love will be cured.”
“Can you guess why this girl has fled?” asked the woman.
Gunrig’s brows contracted, and a grim smile played on his lips as he replied, after a brief pause—
“Well, I am not quite sure, mother. It may be that she is not too fond of me—which only shows her want of taste. But that can be cured when she finds out what a fine man I am! Anyhow, I will have her, if I should have to hunt the forest for a hundred moons, and fight all the tribes put together.”
“And how do you propose to go about it, my son?”
“That is the very thing I want you to tell me. If it were fighting that had to be done I would not trouble you—but this is a matter that goes beyond the wisdom of a plain warrior.”
“Then, if you would gain your end, my son, I should advise you to send a message to King Hudibras by one of your most trusty men; and let the message be that you are deeply grieved at the loss of his daughter’s hand; that—”
“But I’m nothing of the kind, mother, so that would not be true.”
“What does it matter whether true or not, if the king only believes it to be true?”
“I don’t quite agree, mother, with your notions about truth. To my mind a warrior should always be straightforward and say what he means.”
“Then go, my son, and tell the king what you have just told me, and he will cut your head off,” replied the dame in a tone of sarcasm.
“If I act on that advice, I will take my warriors with me and carry my sword in my hand, so that his head would stand as good a chance of falling as mine,” returned Gunrig with a laugh. “But go on with your advice, mother.”
“Well, say that you feel in honour bound to give up all claim to his daughter’s hand, but that, as you want a wife very much to keep your house as your mother is getting too old, you will be content to take his visitor, Branwen, and will be glad to help in the search for her. Will you send that message?”
“It may be that I will. In any case I’ll send something like it.”
So saying the chief turned abruptly on his heel and left the room.
It may be imagined that the return home of Prince Bladud was the cause of much rejoicing in the whole district as well as in his father’s house. At first the king, being, as we have said, a very stern man, felt disposed to stand upon his dignity, and severely rebuke the son who had run away from home and remained away so long. But an undercurrent of tenderness, and pride in the youth’s grand appearance, and great prowess, induced him to give in with a good grace and extend to him unreserved forgiveness.
As for the queen, she made no attempt to conceal her joy and pride, and the same may be said of the princess.
There was instituted a series of fêtes and games in honour of the return of the prodigal, at which he was made—not unwillingly—to show the skill which he had acquired from practising with the competitors at the Olympic games, about which the islanders had heard from Phoenician traders from time to time, and great was the interest thus created, especially when he showed them, among other arts, how to use their fists in boxing, and their swords in guarding so as to enable them to dispense with a shield. But these festivities did not prevent him from taking an interest in the search that his father and the hunters were still making for Branwen.
When many days had passed, however, and no word of her whereabouts was forthcoming, it was at last arranged that a message regarding her disappearance should be sent to her father’s tribe by a party of warriors who were to be led by the prince himself.
“I will go gladly,” he said to his sister, a day or two before the party was to set out. “For your sake, Hafrydda, I will do my best to clear up the mystery; and I think it highly probable that I shall find the runaway safely lodged in her father’s house.”
“I fear not,” returned Hafrydda, with a sad look. “It seems impossible that she could have made her way so far alone through the wild forests.”
“But she may not have been alone. Friends may have helped her.”
“She had no friends in the town, having been here but a short time,” objected the princess. “But do your best to find her, Bladud, for I feel quite sure that you will fall in love with her when you see her.”
The youth laughed.
“No fear of that,” he said, “many a pretty girl have I seen in the East; nevertheless I have, as you see, left them all without a thought of ever returning again.”
“But I did not say you would fall in love with Branwen because she is pretty. I feel sure that you will, because she is sweet, and merry, and good—yet thoughtful—wonderfully thoughtful!”
“Ay, and you may add,” said the queen, who came into the room just then, “that she is sometimes thoughtless and wonderfully full of mischief.”
“Nay, mother, you are not just,” returned the princess. “Her mischief is only on the surface, her thoughtfulness lies deep down.”
“Well, well, whatever may be the truth regarding her, I shall not trouble my head about her; for I have never yet felt what men call love, and I feel sure I never shall.”
“I like to hear you say that, brother,” rejoined Hafrydda; “for I have noticed, young though I am, that when men say they will never fall in love or marry, they are always pretty near the point of doing one or both.”
But poor Bladud was destined to do neither at that time, for an event was hanging over him, though he knew it not, which was to affect very seriously the whole of his after life.
For several days previous to the above conversation, he had felt a sensation that was almost new to him—namely, that of being slightly ill. Whether it was the unwonted exertions consequent on his efforts at the games, or the excitement of the return home, we cannot say, but headache, accompanied by a slight degree of fever, had troubled him. Like most strong men in the circumstances, he adopted the Samsonian and useless method of “shaking it off”! He went down into the arena and performed feats of strength and agility that surprised even himself; but the fever which enabled him to do so, asserted itself at last, and finally compelled him to do what he should have done at first—pocket his pride and give in.
Of course we do not suggest that giving in to little sensations of ailment is either wise or manly. There are duties which call on men to fight even in sickness—ay, in spite of sickness—but “showing off” in the arena was not one of these.
Be this as it may, Bladud came at last to the condition of feeling weak—an incomprehensible state of feeling to him. He thereupon went straight home, and, flinging himself half petulantly on a couch, exclaimed—“Mother, I am ill!”
“My son, I have seen that for many days past, and have waited with some anxiety till you should come to the point of admitting it.”
“And now that I have admitted it,” returned the youth with a languid smile, “what is to be done?”
The answer to that question was not the simple one of modern days, “Send for the doctor,” because no doctors worthy of the name existed. There was, indeed, a solemn-visaged, long-headed, elderly man among King Hudibras’ followers who was known as the medicine-man to the royal household, but his services were not often in request, because people were seldom ill, save when they were going to die, and when that time came it was generally thought best to let them die in peace. This medicine-man, though a quack in regard to physic, was, however, a true man, as far as his knowledge went in surgery—that is to say, he was expert at the setting of broken bones, when the fractures were not too compound; he could bandage ordinary wounds; he had even ventured into the realm of experimental surgery so far as to knock out a decayed back tooth with a bronze chisel and a big stone. But his knowledge of drugs was naturally slight, and his power of diagnosis feeble. Still, unworthy though he may be of the title, we will for convenience style him the doctor.
“My poor boy,” said the queen, in answer to his question, and laying her hand on his hot brow, “I am so sorry
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