The Splendid Spur<br />Being Memoirs of the Adventures of Mr. John Marvel, a Servant of His Late Maj, Arthur Quiller-Couch [books suggested by elon musk TXT] 📗

But I saw her no longer: only called “oh-oh!” twice, like a little child, and slipping my hold of the saddle, dropp'd forward on her breast.

Waking, I found myself in darkness—not like that of night, but of a room where the lights have gone out: and felt that I was dying. But this hardly seem'd a thing to be minded. There was a smell of peat and bracken about. Presently I heard the tramp of feet somewhere overhead, and a dull sound of voices that appear'd to be cursing.

The footsteps went to and fro, the voices muttering most of the time. After a bit I caught a word—“Witchcraft”: and then a voice speaking quite close—“There's blood 'pon her hands, an' there's blood yonder by the plough.” Said another voice, higher and squeaky, “there's scent behind a fox, but you don't dig it up an' take it home.” The tramp passed on, and the voices died away.

By this I knew the troopers were close, and seeking me. A foolish thought came that I was buried, and they must be rummaging over my grave: but indeed I had no wish to enquire into it; no wish to move even, but just to lie and enjoy the lightness of my limbs. The blood was still running. I felt the warmth of it against my back: and thought it very pleasant. So I shut my eyes and dropp'd off again.

Then I heard the noise of shouting, far away: and a long while after that, was rous'd by the touch of a hand, thrust in against my naked breast, over my heart.

“Who is it?” I whispered.

“Joan,” answered a voice, and the hand was withdrawn.

The darkness had lifted somewhat, and though something stood between me and the light, I mark'd a number of small specks, like points of gold dotted around me—

“Joan—what besides?”

“Joan's enough, I reckon: lucky for thee 'tis none else. Joan o' the Tor folks call me, but may jet be Joan i' Good Time. So hold thy peace, lad, an' cry out so little as may be.”

I felt a ripping of my jacket sleeve and shirt, now clotted and stuck to the flesh. It pain'd cruelly, but I shut my teeth: and after that came the smart and delicious ache of water, as she rinsed the wound.

“Clean through the flesh, lad:—in an' out, like country dancin'. No bullet to probe nor bone to set. Heart up, soce! Thy mother shall kiss thee yet. What's thy name?”

“Marvel, Joan—Jack Marvel.”

“An' marvel 'tis thou'rt Marvel yet. Good blood there's in thee, but little enow.”

She bandaged the sore with linen torn from my shirt, and tied it round with sackcloth from her own dress. 'Twas all most gently done: and then I found her arms under me, and myself lifted as easy as a baby.

“Left arm round my neck, Jack: an' sing out if 'tis hurtin' thee.”

It seemed but six steps and we were out on the bright hillside, not fifty paces from where the plough yet stood in the furrow. I caught a glimpse of a brown neck and a pair of firm red lips, of the grey tor stretching above us and, further aloft, a flock of field fare hanging in the pale sky; and then shut my eyes for the dazzle: but could still feel the beat of Joan's heart as she held me close, and the touch of her breath on my forehead.

Down the hill she carried me, picking the softest turf, and moving with an easeful swing that rather lull'd my hurt than jolted it. I was dozing, even, when a strange noise awoke me.

'Twas a high protracted note, that seem'd at first to swell up toward us, and then broke off in half a dozen or more sharp yells. Joan took no heed of them, but seeing my eyes unclose, and hearing me moan, stopped short.

“Hurts thee, lad?”

“No.” 'Twas not my pain but the sight of the sinking sun that wrung the exclamation from me—“I was thinking,” I muttered.

“Don't: 'tis bad for health. But bide thee still a-while, and shalt lie 'pon a soft bed.”

By this time, we had come down to the road: and the yells were still going on, louder than ever. We cross'd the road, descended another slope, and came all at once on a low pile of buildings that a moment before had been hid. 'Twas but three hovels of mud, stuck together in the shape of a headless cross, the main arm pointing out toward the moor. Around the whole ran a battered wall, patched with furs; and from this dwelling the screams were issuing—

“Joan!” the voice began, “Joan—Jan Tergagle's a-clawin' my legs—Gar-rout, thou hell cat—Blast thee, let me zog! Pull'n off Joan—Jo-an!”

The voice died away into a wail; then broke out in a racket of curses. Joan stepped to the door and flung it wide. As my eyes grew used to the gloom inside, they saw this:—

A rude kitchen—the furniture but two rickety chairs, now toss'd on their faces, an oak table, with legs sunk into the earth, a keg of strong waters, tilted over and draining upon the mud floor, a ladder leading up to a loft, and in two of the corners a few bundles of bracken strewn for bedding. To the left, as one entered, was an open hearth; but the glowing peat-turves were now pitch'd to right and left over the hearthstone and about the floor, where they rested, filling the den with smoke. Under one of the chairs a black cat spat and bristled: while in the middle of the room, barefooted in the embers, crouched a man. He was half naked, old and bent, with matted grey hair and beard hanging almost to his waist. His chest and legs were bleeding from a score of scratches; and he pointed at the cat, opening and shutting his mouth like a dog, and barking out curse upon curse.

No way upset, Joan stepped across the kitchen, laid me on one of the bracken beds, and explain'd—

“That's feyther: he's drunk.”

With which she turn'd, dealt the old man a cuff that stretch'd him senseless, and gathering up the turves, piled them afresh on the hearth. This done, she took the keg and gave me a drink of it. The stuff scalded me, but I thanked her. And then, when she had shifted my bed a bit, to ease the pain of lying, she righted a chair, drew it up and sat beside me. The old man lay like a log where he had fallen, and was now snoring. Presently, the fumes of the liquor, or mere faintness, mastered me, and my eyes closed. But the picture they closed upon was that of Joan, as she lean'd forward, chin on hand, with the glow of the fire on her brown skin and in the depths of her dark eyes.

{Illustration: Joan}